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WHEN I WAS A GIRL 
IN WALES 


CHILDREN OF OTHER LANDS BOOKS 


WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

CHINA 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

ITALY 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

JAPAN 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

GREECE 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

PALESTINE 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

BELGIUM 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

RUSSIA 

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I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

ROUMANIA 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

HOLLAND 

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WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

MEXICO 

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I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

ICELAND 

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I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

PERSIA 

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I 

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A 

BOY 

IN 

SCOTLAND 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

NORWAY 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

SWITZERLAND 

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I 

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A 

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IN 

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I 

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A 

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IN 

INDIA 

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I 

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A 

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IN 

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I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

FRANCE 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

ARMENIA 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

SWEDEN 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

KOREA 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

HUNGARY 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

GIRL 

IN 

WALES 

WHEN 

I 

WAS 

A 

BOY 

IN 

IRELAND 











CONWAY CASTLE 







WHEN 

I WAS A GIRL 
IN WALES 

MM 

Maude Morgan Thomas 


) I 

New York 

LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD CO. 

1936 






Copyright, 1936, by 


LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 




t ■> 4 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



18 








TO 


Hugh , David and Roger 












CONTENTS 


I. 

In Pontypool . 

• 

1 

II. 

A Visitor from America . 


15 

III. 

An Old Roman Road 


30 

IV. 

School Days 


45 

V. 

Pageants and Plays 


58 

VI. 

Churches and Castles 


69 

VII. 

A Visit to Abernant 


83 

VIII. 

In Beaumaris 


101 

IX. 

Christmas and Other Holidays 

121 

X. 

Eisteddfodau 


137 

XI. 

Good-bye to Wales 


153 











When I Was A Girl 
in Wales 


CHAPTER i 

IN PONTYPOOL 

Wales is a land of rugged mountains 
and torrential streams; of churches and 
castles; and of a people who are often as 
reserved and aloof as the hills, yet mainly 
as musical and vivacious as the tumbling 
waters. And history affirms that they 
are as fiery and religious as their for¬ 
tresses and churches suggest. 

The poet Ruskin once referred to Wales 
as possessing the loveliest rock and glen 
scenery in the world, and its mountain 
views have been judged the finest in 
Europe. It divides itself into two dis- 


1 



2 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

tinct sections: the North and the South, 
with so great a difference that sometimes 
Welshmen from the South find it dif¬ 
ficult to understand the dialect of the 
Northerners, and vice versa. There is 
a mild feeling of antagonism between the 
people of the sections. The North Welsh 
regard the South Welsh with a cold re¬ 
serve. The attitude of the Southerners 
can best be expressed in the words of an 
old lady of the South who had stopped to 
gossip with her neighbor. 

“ Dear, dear,” she exclaimed. “ Did 
you hear about Deacon Jones’ son? ” 

“ No, indeed,” replied her neighbor. 
“ What is it, whatever? ” 

“ Tut, tut! Such a pity! He’s gone 
and married a ‘Northus’!” 

Yet all this mild antagonism, this 
divergence of language, the furious his¬ 
tory and fervid religion compress them¬ 
selves into an area smaller than that of 
the State of New Jersey. 


3 


In Pontypool 

That part of Wales which is not hill 
nor valley is given over to rock and sand 
and pebbles, over which the sea rushes and 
recedes. The little Principality on the 
western edge of England is very friendly 
with the ocean, which forms its boundary 
on three sides, and the Welsh love the 
sea. 

In the North, the mountains are as 
beautiful as they were two thousand years 
ago when the original inhabitants of Eng¬ 
land, now called the Welsh, sought refuge 
in them from the invasion of the Romans. 
Quaint towns and farms nestle in the 
valleys, and in the summertime its sea¬ 
side resorts attract many Welsh and Eng¬ 
lish vacationists. 

North Wales is famous for its moun¬ 
tains of slate, the largest quarry in the 
world being Slate Mountain, which is 
over 1400 feet high, and from which some 
of the best roofs in the world have been 
taken. And because the slate is quarried 









4 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

in terraces, many of them fifty feet high, 
the mountain presents the appearance of 
a huge amphitheatre. It is said that there 
is still enough slate left to roof the world 
for untold centuries. 

In the South of Wales the mountains 
are lovely, but some of the valleys are 
scarred by coal pits and waste piles, and 
the air of the hills is sometimes blackened 
by the smoke of the copper and tin mills 
and the iron works, for the South is the 
industrial section. 

More than fifty million tons of coal are 
produced annually in South Wales. The 
iron works produce cables of iron as thick 
as a man’s arm, and these are welded into 
chains for warship and ocean liner anchors, 
some of which cost more than $50,000. 
Tons of Welsh chain lie at the bottom of 
the ocean with the rest of the ill-fated 
Lusitania , the palatial British liner that 
was sunk during the World War. 

I was born in Pontypool, Monmouth- 


In Pontypool 5 

shire, South Wales, a small town near the 
sea. My birthplace was a little stone 
house with a slate roof that nestled in the 
center of a long row of identical houses, all 
joined together. A bay window and a 
door met the sidewalk in front; in the 
back was a small garden. There were no 
porches. 

The houses across the street were not 
on the same level as those on our side. 
A stone wall rose from the sidewalk to a 
height of about ten feet, and atop this 
was another sidewalk parallel to which 
a row of stone houses stretched out in a 
long row. They were reached by means of 
stone steps at the ends of the block, and 
the whole thing was called a terrace. 

The houses showed trim faces to the 
street. Slate roofs gleamed, windows 
glistened and a general air of neatness and 
a well-scrubbed look attested to the Welsh 
passion for cleanliness. 

Housewives were especially proud of 


6 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the appearance of their front doors. 
Brass knockers and letter slots were 
always gleaming, and the doorsteps were 
always immaculately white. Chalking 
the doorstep was the first duty of the 
morning, many housewives believing that 
evil spirits would not enter a house thus 
protected. And certainly no caller, no 
matter how early he came, could complain 
of her untidiness. 

Most of my childhood was spent in 
Granville House, a large stone villa near 
the center of the town. It was completely 
enclosed by a high stone wall. Opening 
to the sidewalk was a heavy oaken door, 
and above it was a stone arch in which 
was chiseled the name of the house. 

Within the walls were lawns and a 
flower garden, and over in a corner was 
my special place, where ivy and Virginia 
creeper scrambled over the wall, and 
velvety wallflowers, stocks and tiny daisies 
grew happily in the moist earth. My 



A LAND OF MOUNTAINS AND STREAMS 






THE BIRTHPLACE OF DAVID LLOYD GEORGE 





7 


In Pontypool 

favorite play was building stone houses 
for our baby chicks, that always rebelled 
at being dressed in the clothes of my 
smallest dolls, and never would stay in 
the little houses. Dogs and cats were just 
as stubborn, always clawing off carefully 
tied bonnets and dragging in the mud the 
hems of my best doll dresses. 

Cuckoos would visit our garden in the 
spring, and to hear their first call was to 
know that winter was gone. Pert little 
robins, which in Wales are as small as 
sparrows, would line up on the wall at 
tea time, waiting for the crumbs we would 
throw out to them. 

Tea time seemed to me the happiest 
time of the day. It meant a cozy hour 
before the fireplace, with the kettle steam¬ 
ing on the hob and the smell of buttered 
toast adding glamor to the flickering fire¬ 
light. The teapot would be sitting, squat 
and brown, on its corkwork pad on the 
table. Mother’s favorite tea cozy would 


8 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

be over it, keeping the tea hot and steam¬ 
ing. The cozy was made of lace, lined 
with silk and filled with cotton batting, 
making a warm coat for the teapot. 

Because so many of the rooms had been 
closed off, Granville House always seemed 
to me a very mysterious place. Going to 
bed was a ghostly adventure, especially 
the walk down the long dark passage of 
the third floor, past doors that had not 
been opened for years. 

One room I particularly avoided, be¬ 
cause the man who had lived in the 
house immediately before us, “ old Mr. 
Probyn,” had died there. Over the door 
hung a heavy curtain, which, when I 
passed at night, would move slightly with 
the current of air. Then I would race 
down the long passage to my room, afraid 
to look back for fear something was fol¬ 
lowing me. 

The kitchen was really the most in¬ 
teresting room. The large fireplace, with 


9 


In Pontyiiool 

its boiler, oven, and cupboards, took up 
an entire side of the room. It was like 
a built-in range, the oven on one side, and 
on the other a large sunken boiler for 
boiling clothes on washday and plum 
puddings for Christmas. Hanging near 
by was the bakestone, or griddle, on 
which Mother made Welsh cookies and 
froise, and, on every Saturday, bakestone 
bread. 

On each side of the fireplace were strips 
of black slate, reaching from the floor to 
the ceiling. Welsh children used to chalk 
their homework on these slates. 

Off the kitchen was the “ scullery,” a 
place containing a sink in which the dishes 
were washed. Both the scullery and 
kitchen were floored in large slabs of slate. 
There were no cellars to our houses. 

Open fireplaces were an important part 
of a Welsh household. There was no 
central heating in most homes, heat being 
furnished by small fires in each room. 


10 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

The winters in Wales were not severe, so 
the fireplaces were quite adequate. 

The fireplace in the living room was 
very handsome with its white mantelpiece 
and ornate fire grate. Around it on the 
floor was an oblong brass fender, of three 
sides and about a foot high. This was to 
keep the hot coals off the carpet and the 
children out of the fire. Unfortunately, 
there was nothing to keep the children off 
the fender, and it shared with the rocking- 
chair the distinction of causing most of 
the head cuts of our childhood. 

Inside this railing were kept the tongs, 
long-handled shovel, poker, and coal 
scuttle, all made of brass which was kept 
brightly shined. The tongs were used for 
lifting the large lumps of soft coal into 
the fire, and the shovel was used for re¬ 
moving ashes from beneath the grate. 
We bought our wood for starting the fires 
already cut, and tied in small bundles. 
We called it “ stick.” Resting near the 


11 


In Pontypool 

grate was the bellows, used for quickening 
a lagging flame. 

Every fireplace had its “ hob,” a round 
piece of iron like a plate, which was at¬ 
tached to the side of the grate, and which, 
turning on a pivot, could be moved over 
the fire, or off, as necessary. On this was 
kept the ever-present teakettle, for the 
Welsh must always have hot water ready 
for a cup of tea, “ cupanaid o’ de.” I re¬ 
member Mother drinking a cup of tea in 
bed every morning, and I have since dis¬ 
covered that even in America a native- 
born Welshman will sometimes shy like 
a frightened horse at the thought of coffee 
for breakfast. 

We had no relatives in Pontypool. 
Most of our people lived in Brecon, South 
Wales, where they had been living and 
dying for hundreds of years. The town 
nestled in a lovely valley, near the spot 
where the poet Shelley spent many happy 
days, and not far from the Welsh home 


12 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

of Adelina Patti, the celebrated singer. 

In Llangorse Pool, a few miles away, 
an ancient city was said to lie buried. It 
was flooded over when the valley was 
dammed up to form a reservoir to hold 
the rushing waters of the mountain 
streams. And it was believed that on a 
calm day you could hear the mournful 
chiming of the cathedral bells coming 
from the depths of the lake. 

It was in Brecon that I first learned of 
men who climbed trees to catch fish. 
Father and I were standing on a stone 
bridge, watching the river come tumbling 
down to a still, deep pool beneath us. Sud¬ 
denly we were startled to see a man’s arm 
thrust from an overhanging tree and then 
a small harpoon hurtle down into the 
water. The man jumped from the tree 
into the pool and presently emerged with 
a two-foot salmon neatly impaled on the 
point of the harpoon. He then thrust the 
fish, wet and wiggling, under his coat and 


13 


In Pontypool 

quietly disappeared into the adjoining 
woods. Father said that he was a poacher, 
fishing on private property without per¬ 
mission, and had resorted to this means of 
fishing to evade the law. 

Farther on down the stream the regular 
fishermen were catching salmon from 
coracles, tiny canoes similar to those used 
by the Britons two thousand years ago. 
In those days the boats were covered with 
skins, but our fishermen used a frame¬ 
work of beech and ash twigs covered over 
with a strong canvas sheet soaked in tar 
and pitch. In leather pockets on the tiny 
seats were heavy clubs which were used 
for killing the salmon when caught. 

The boats were so tiny that they could 
be easily upset, and small boys, until they 
learned to navigate them properly, were 
tied to them with ropes, so that if the 
boats should overturn, they could hang 
on until help arrived. 

The coracles, being light in weight, were 


14 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

strapped to the fishermen’s backs when 
the day’s work was done, and thus carried 
home, the men and boys looking for all 
the world like huge turtles walking on 
their hind legs. 


CHAPTER II 


A VISITOR FROM AMERICA 

One day Mother announced that a 
little American cousin was coming to visit 
us, and in a few weeks Janet arrived at 
Granville House. 

Naturally, we were very curious about 
each other. She wanted to know what 
Welsh girls wore and how they talked, 
and I was very eager to learn about 
America. 

There were many differences in our 
appearance, the first being that I had two 
black eyes,—a result of watching a cricket 
match, although I hastened to assure 
Janet that this was not a characteristic 
common to the Welsh. 

A cricket ball, which is hard like a base- 


15 



16 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

ball, had struck me between the eyes as I 
stood on the sidelines, and immediately I 
became down and out. I had a lump the 
size of an egg on my forehead, and, next 
day, two black eyes, of which I was ex¬ 
tremely proud. But I was sorry that the 
ball hadn’t broken my leg. That was the 
trouble with accidents when I was small. 
They were never serious enough to keep 
me out of school, and never gave me a 
chance to use crutches or have my arm 
in a sling. 

Janet, accustomed to short dresses and 
bobbed hair, thought Welsh girls very 
strange in their longer dresses and uncut 
hair. If you have seen pictures of Alice 
in Wonderland, who was herself a girl in 
Wales, you have a rather good idea of 
how we appeared to Janet. 

We wore pinafores with ruffles over 
the shoulders, black stockings, and red 
flannel petticoats. Long semicircular 
combs held the hair back from our faces, 


A Visitor from America 17 

although sometimes we used narrow rib¬ 
bons for the purpose. 

Mothers were very careful about keep¬ 
ing us warm in winter, for the Welsh 
climate is quite damp. We were seldom 
without the reassuring warmth of our red 
flannel petticoats, and the boys, even when 
they graduated from skirts, did not es¬ 
cape the red flannel, which, made into 
chest and back protectors, was slipped on 
over their heads and fastened down at the 
waist. When, in spite of the flannel, we 
caught cold, a piece of camphor was sewed 
into a little bag and hung on a string 
around our necks. 

Farm women, working in the fields, 
often pinned up their outer skirts for 
added warmth, thus exposing the bright 
petticoat and producing a colorful cos¬ 
tume. Welsh babies were rocked to sleep 
in red flannel shawls, and yards of 
flannel were wound about their middles 
to keep them warm. 


18 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

As you might have surmised, the Welsh 
are very fond of red flannel. Red is the 
color of Wales. A red dragon breathes 
defiance from against the green and white 
background of our flag. The Welsh coat 
of arms, which bears the words “ Cymru 
am Byth,” “ Wales Forever,” is of red 
dragons rampant, and is said to be the 
oldest in Europe. 

Wales is a great country for wool. 
Her mountain sheep produce the raw 
material that is woven in the villages into 
a very fine product. 

It was not only in dress that Janet and 
I differed. Although we both spoke Eng¬ 
lish, it was almost as if we were conversing 
in different languages. So many things 
she said I couldn’t understand, while I was 
often at a loss to explain my expressions 
to her. Even my tone of voice confused 
her. I would talk for a few minutes in 
English, completely absorbed in my story, 
until, looking up, I would find her face 


A Visitor from America 19 

completely blank. She hadn’t understood 
a word! 

She used expressions, too, that held no 
meaning for me. I asked her once how 
much she weighed, and she said “ Fifty- 
five pounds.” But this had to be changed 
into “stone ” before I could compare my 
weight with hers, for that was the standard 
of weight we used when we spoke in Eng¬ 
lish. 

Her pronunciation of “ twopence ” 
seemed amusing to us. She sounded it 
exactly as it is spelled, “ two-pence,” but 
we always slurred the word into “ tup¬ 
pence.” “ Threepence ” was likewise 
“ thruppence,” and “ halfpenny,” “ hay- 
punny.” 

And how Janet struggled with the 
Welsh words! After a few like “ anam- 
ghyffredadwg ” and “ gwrthwynebrwydd ” 
she was ready to give up any idea of 
mastering the language. 

Because of the scarcity of vowels, the 


20 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

language of Wales is difficult to learn, 
many of the words and sounds being 
almost beyond pronunciation by a for¬ 
eigner. There is, for instance, the double 
“ 1,” “ LI,” for the sound of which there 
is no description other than that you make 
it by placing the tongue against the roof 
of the mouth and blowing hard around the 
sides. 

In spite of the bristling consonants, it 
is conceded that the Lord’s prayer in 
Welsh has a softer sound than in any 
other language. The Welsh are deeply 
religious, and so I suppose it is natural 
that our language assumes its softest 
cadence for the word of God. 

Although we usually spoke English 
at home, we could, like most Welsh, ex¬ 
press ourselves equally well in both Eng¬ 
lish and Welsh. The older folks would 
usually begin a conversation in English, 
which was all right for the preliminaries, 
but as the subject became more interest- 


21 


A Visitor from America 

ing, they would abandon the English and 
lapse into their beloved Welsh, which 
has a fiery, excitable sound, well suited 
to dramatic discussions. 

David Lloyd George says it is a splen¬ 
did language for an orator, and I am 
sure that this is true. Added to the power 
of a Welshman’s argument is the hyp¬ 
notizing effect of the music of his voice, 
the rolling of his r-r-r-r’s and the con¬ 
tagious enthusiasm that causes his eyes 
to shine like stars and his arms to wave 
like signal flags. 

It is said that, in days gone by, an 
English king, believing that the conquest 
of Wales could never be accomplished 
while the bards, or poets, remained to stir 
up the people, ordered them all to be 
massacred as they assembled on the banks 
of the River Conway in Wales. 

Janet and I discovered that there was 
very little difference between American 
and Welsh children at play. Many of our 


22 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

games were similar, but there were many, 
too, that were different, and these were 
the ones that interested Janet most. 

She liked our tops, and our manner of 
driving them. We would color the tops 
with rings of different-colored chalk, and 
then set them spinning with a twist of the 
wrists. Immediately we would begin 
whipping them with a strong piece of 
string tied to a stick, driving the spinning 
tops up and down the road, being careful 
all the time to see that they struck no ob¬ 
stacle, nor were allowed to die down from 
lack of whipping. 

Janet soon learned to roll hoops the 
way we did, and became quite adept at 
starting the roll of the large wooden circle 
and then whacking at it with a short stick 
as it bounded away. Neither of us was 
very successful with the steel hoops of the 
boys. These had iron rods attached for 
the purpose of driving, and if they were 
not handled skillfully enough they would 


23 


A Visitor from America 

catch in the motion of the hoop and almost 
break our arms. 

We found diabolos a challenge to our 
skill as well as a lot of fun. A string 
about two feet long was attached at both 
ends to two sticks. The diabolo itself, 
bright-colored and resembling an hour¬ 
glass in shape, would rest on the string 
and be set spinning. We would then toss 
it into the air and try to catch it on the 
string and send it spinning again. 

We played with dolls, teddy bears, and 
golliwogs, made tents, played theatre and 
circus, skipped rope, and played marbles 
and hopscotch, which are, I suppose, the 
universal games of childhood. 

Before Janet returned to “ the States,” 
we visited friends in an obscure little 
village where many of the inhabitants 
could neither speak nor understand Eng¬ 
lish, a rather rare circumstance in Wales. 

Mother presented us to Mrs. Sarah 
Jones, a very lovely old lady who, while 


24 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

having been married for nearly fifty years 
to a man named Thomas Evans, still 
retained her maiden name of Jones. 

It was the custom, she explained, for 
women of her day to keep their own names 
when they married. 

“ What the younger generation’s com¬ 
ing to, I don’t know! ” she said, with a 
hint of mischief in her shoe-button eyes. 
“No backbone, no independence! ” 

We settled ourselves on little three- 
legged stools outside the whitewashed 
cottage, where Mrs. Jones joined us after 
having “ put the kettle on ” for a cup of 
tea. 

“ Mr. Evans and I,” she resumed, 
“ often laugh at our courtship troubles, 
and wonder how we ever had courage 
enough to get married. You see, I was 
brought up in England, and when I met 
him after coming to this country to live, 
I couldn’t speak a word of Welsh. And 
he couldn’t speak a word of English! But 


25 


A Visitor from America 

we got along, and finally married. He 
taught me Welsh, and I taught him Eng¬ 
lish, but for a long time he had trouble, 
especially with his pronouns.” 

She paused to laugh reflectively. 

“ A neighbor would sometimes pass the 
house, and not seeing me, would ask Tom, 
in English, where I was. And he would 
reply, 4 Oh, he's just gone down the road. 
He'll be back soon.’ It took him a long 
time to get his pronouns straight.” 

We sat sipping our tea and nibbling 
on Welsh cookies, when Mrs. Jones sud¬ 
denly jumped up and asked if we would 
like to see the sheep, who were on their 
way in from the hills where they had been 
grazing all day. Of course, we said 
44 yes,” and climbed a little path in back of 
the house to meet the flock. 

The first thing we saw was a large 
sheep dog bounding towards us, dragging 
a little puppy chained to his collar. 

I was sorry for the little dog, for he 


26 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

stumbled, and didn’t want to get up. But 
the big dog dragged him on, nipping at 
his ears to keep him going. 

Then the son, Ivor, explained: 

“ We train our puppies this way, and 
it is a very kind way. The big dog is the 
father, and he is teaching his son to be 
a good sheep dog. Where he goes, the 
pup goes, too, and in this way he soon 
learns to obey the different signals. His 
father, you know, is an expert, trained to 
travel miles at the wave of an arm or to 
pick, at a whistle, a single sheep from the 
flock.” 

The two dogs, having been given the 
order, were resting now. They were 
sitting a few feet away from us, two 
tongues, a large one and a small one, 
hanging from the corners of two panting 
mouths, four eyes watching us attentively. 
The little fellow was sweet. He looked so 
bewildered, yet so eager to learn. 


27 


A Visitor from America 

Ivor suddenly gave a low whistle, and 
immediately the big dog jumped up, and 
in a moment was racing off, dragging his 
son with him. The little pup was soon 
on his feet, however, and in no time at 
all was keeping up with his dad, but tak¬ 
ing twice as many steps to do so. He 
would know next time what that low 
whistle meant! 

Janet and I agreed that it was a beauti¬ 
ful way to train the puppies, and we 
understood, then, the love that exists be¬ 
tween a Welsh shepherd and his dog. 

On the way home I told her the story 
that every Welsh child knows, of 
Llewellyn, a Welsh hero, and his dog 
Gelert. 

The dog was his constant companion, 
and accompanied his master on many 
hunting trips. One day, however, 
Llewellyn went off alone, leaving Gelert 
to guard his infant son, ordering him to 


28 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

stand by the cradle and see that no harm 
came to the child. 

When Llewellyn returned, the dog 
came running toward him, wagging his 
tail happily, and tugging at him to enter 
the house. Then Llewellyn noticed that 
Gelert’s mouth and paws were stained 
with blood, and he rushed in, to find the 
cradle overturned in a pool of blood, and 
the baby missing. 

The dog turned his face up as if ex¬ 
pecting praise, but his master, crazed by 
the thought that Gelert had devoured his 
child, drew his sword and thrust it through 
the upturned throat. Gelert sank to the 
floor, dead. 

Then a muffled cry from behind the 
cradle caused Llewellyn to rush across 
the room, to where, hidden by the over¬ 
turned crib, lay his baby, safe and sound. 
By his side was stretched the body of a 
dead wolf, and then Llewellyn realized, 
too late, that his beloved dog was a hero. 


29 


A Visit or from America 

He buried Gelert with a heavy heart, 
and the grave stone still stands in Wales 
to-day, a constant tribute to the memory 
of the martyred dog. 


CHAPTER III 


AN OLD ROMAN ROAD 

Father was a business man, and owned 
a large sporting goods and music store in 
Pontypool. On one side were pianos, 
gramophones, tin whistles, violins, and 
countless other musical instruments and 
their accessories. On the other side were 
bicycles, tennis rackets, fishing rods, guns, 
and other supplies. 

In the back Father had made a shoot¬ 
ing gallery where his friends could have 
rifle practice. They made a terrific din all 
day, and when the town band met for re¬ 
hearsal in the showroom on the second 
floor, I would sit on the flagstone terrace 
in back of the store and imagine they were 
marching to war and being fired on by 
the enemy. Sometimes when some one 


30 


An Old Roman Road 31 

in the band would strike a sour note, 
especially a cornetist, I would tremble 
for fear that one of the marksmen on the 
floor below actually would shoot at the 
ceiling, for the Welsh are very fastidious 
about their music. 

A great many bicycles were sold in the 
store, for there were no automobiles in 
Pontypool, and bicycles provided us with 
transportation as well as sport. Welsh 
children learned to ride when they were 
very young, and I was seven when I was 
given my first big “ bike.” I learned to 
ride in the arcade adjoining Father’s 
store. This was a large stone building 
lined with shops, and having a flagstone 
floor that was excellent for riding, but 
rather hard and cold when you fell. 

When I had learned to ride well, we 
began taking long rides before breakfast, 
and I became acquainted with the beauti¬ 
ful Welsh countryside. In the spring¬ 
time we would get up very early. Mother 


32 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

would dress Millicent, my sister, who 
couldn’t walk yet; Father would place 
her in the package carrier in front of his 
hike in such a way that she could rest 
against him as he rode; I’d mount my bike, 
and with many wavings and good-byes 
to Mother we would join the milkmen and 
street cleaners who were beginning to 
make their rounds. We kept to the left 
side of the road, for that is the custom in 
Wales. 

Father’s straw hat would be attached 
to a long black cord, clipped to his lapel 
so that it would not blow away. His 
trouser cuffs were tucked in place with 
bicycle clips so that they would not catch 
in the gears of his bike. 

Our favorite spot was a stone bridge 
that spanned a lovely canal about five 
miles away. Snowdrops grew there in 
the spring, even before the snow was off 
the ground. We would rest our bikes 
on the banks of the canal and look about 
in tiny crevices for the dainty white 


An Old Roman Road 33 

blossoms with their shyly drooping heads. 

When summer came we would ride 
past fields sprinkled with tiny daisies and 
buttercups. These flowers do not grow 
tall in Wales. They are little single stems 
about two inches high. Scattered among 
the closely cropped green grasses of the 
meadows they look as if God had taken 
great handfuls of them and scattered them 
about like chicken feed. 

Later, the wheat fields would be lush 
and green, and then we could find blue 
cornflowers and red poppies growing 
with the grain. 

On our way back we usually stopped 
at the Horse and Jockey Inn, under the 
sign of the horse and jockey, where we 
drank milk and ate thick slices of bread 
and cheese. We always rode slower going 
home, for Millicent would be asleep and 
resting against Father’s shoulder, and I 
would be wobbling about, beginning to 
feel very sleepy myself. 

Our way would sometimes be obstructed 


34 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

by a flock of sheep coming in from the 
hills to the market place. It was very 
sad to see the little lambs running along 
the side of the road trying to catch up 
with the others and crying for their 
mothers. 

We often rode out to a hillside spot 
where a river tumbled noisily and where 
tall foxgloves grew in wild profusion. I 
would scramble up the bank and press the 
velvety lavender, rose, and crimson bells 
against my face. On the top of the hill 
I could see a tall mountain ash, looking 
like a brightly trimmed Christmas tree 
with its red berries. 

Summer Saturdays were usually picnic 
days, when three or four of us would set 
out for a walk. Our destination was 
usually the “ tump,” where we picked 
daisies and buttercups and wove them 
into chains, rolled down the grassy slopes 
of the little hill, and later ate lunch from 
a large tea basket. We had Welsh 


An Old Homan Road 35 

cookies, pomegranates, and tiger nuts, 
and in a corner of the basket we usually 
found some “ Turkish Delight ” and a 
large bottle of soda pop. 

This pop had a special attraction. The 
bottle was sealed by a glass marble, which 
presented both a mystery and a problem. 
The mystery was how the marble got 
there, and the problem was how to take 
it out. Of course, it was pushed in when 
we drank the pop, but that only left the 
marble farther from our reach. We 
usually solved the problem by breaking 
the bottle. 

On the way home from our Saturday 
walks we would stop by the river edge 
to make baskets and birds’ nests from 
the rubbery white centers of long reed 
stems. We had to be very careful in 
peeling them so that the strand wouldn’t 
break. 

As a very special picnic, Mother, 
Father, Millicent and I sometimes walked 


36 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

to the old Roman road and tower about 
four miles out of town. It was not un¬ 
usual that we should walk this far. Every 
one walked in Wales, even those who 
didn’t have to. Lords and ladies thought 
nothing of walking six miles to church 
and back. Walking was regarded as a 
pleasure, as it really was in the moist, 
dustless climate, beneath the great trees 
that overhung the country lanes and be¬ 
tween the bright hedges that bordered 
them. 

For our walk to the Roman tower we 
started early in the morning and carried 
a lunch, for we should not be back before 
noon. After crossing the town we came 
to one of the gates that opened into Squire 
Hanley’s estate, through which we were 
going to take a short cut to the Roman 
road. There were nearly a thousand acres 
to the estate, and the ten-foot brick wall 
that enclosed the park was several miles 
long. 


An Old Roman Road 37 

Our path led down a ravine where the 
rhododendron was in bloom and rabbits 
and pheasants scurried away at our ap¬ 
proach. In a few minutes we were skirt¬ 
ing the lawns of the place, beautiful 
emerald carpets that, having been culti¬ 
vated for centuries, were now incredibly 
green and smooth. 

Mother explained that the lawns of the 
great landowners were their especial pride. 
That they would spend hours walking over 
them and admiring them, stopping to 
pick up the tiniest weed or pebble that 
would mar the surface. 

The grass was cut regularly twice a 
week, usually with lawnmowers, although 
Mother could remember when scythes and 
sickles were used. Those were the days 
when real skill was required. The work 
had to be done at dawn when the dew was 
on the grass, for it could not be cut pre¬ 
cisely enough unless it were wet. 

A man spent a lifetime learning the art 


38 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

of lawn-cutting with a scythe, and only 
when he was old was he considered expert 
at the work. A gardener’s boy began his 
apprenticeship cutting hay, in with older 
men who would show him how to wield 
the scythe. From them he learned the 
most important secret of mowing,— 
always to have the edge of the scythe 
razor-sharp. An old man with a sharp 
scythe could cut circles around a strong 
young one with a dull blade. 

Mother said it was a picture to see the 
men cutting the hay on the big estates. 
People would come from the near-by 
villages early in the morning to stand 
around and watch them. Sometimes as 
many as thirty-five men would get out on 
the field in oblique formation, each man 
a step ahead of the other, so that they 
formed a large V. They would mow the 
hay in rhythm, singing at the work so 
that they would swing in time. 

“ And at the end of the day,” Mother 



An Old Homan Road 39 

laughed, “ the young men would be tired 
out, but the old fellows would be almost 
as fresh and strong as when they began.” 

Before we left the estate we visited for 
a while with the head gardener, who was 
a friend of Father’s, and who, with great 
pride, showed us some of his work. 

There were gardens of different nations, 
where flowers peculiar to their lands were 
cultivated, and we saw the large flower 
beds, each about thirty feet square, with 
about fifty varieties of flowers arranged 
in stars, diamonds, and triangles. Most 
of the flowers were low-growing so that 
the garden would look like a bright- 
colored rug, the colors of the flowers being 
skillfully arranged to harmonize with 
each other. 

The gardener was very proud of his 
fruit trees. They were so trained that 
they grew flat against a brick wall, the 
branches arranged in different lines,— 
fan-shaped, oblique, horizontal, and up- 



40 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

right, from which the fruit hung like 
jewels on a pendant. 

As we left the estate Father said: 

“ It takes a great many gardeners to 
keep up a place like this. A head 
gardener is a very important person, and 
often has a dozen or more men working 
under him. And he doesn’t dress like 
a working man. He wears a frock coat 
and top hat, and is really a professional 
gentleman. Head gardeners have been 
knighted and have become members of 
Parliament while still continuing their 
duties on the estates of their employers.” 

We were climbing a grassy hill that 
was golden with wild daffodils and narcis¬ 
sus, and when we reached the top Millicent 
and I rolled all the way down again, being 
very careful, though, to dodge the flowers. 

Presently we came to the Roman road, 
and I walked carefully on the flat, evenly 
spaced stones, thinking of the Romans 
who had set them there, and wondering 
what sandaled feet had traveled it nearly 


An Old Roman Road 41 

two thousand years ago, when Rome drove 
the Britons westward to the hills and built 
stone roads and forts in their occupation 
of the land. 

The road climbed steadily upward. 
Scarlet flowers called “ ragged robins ” 
grew between the stones. Cowslips and 
primroses lined the banks. Then around 
a bend appeared a field of solid blue, 
rippling in the breeze like a lovely lake. 
It was a field of bluebells, a common sight 
in rural Wales. Each stem drooped with 
the weight of a dozen or more blue bells, 
all moving and nodding as the breeze 
caressed them, so closely growing that the 
blue of the flowers completely hid the 
green of the leaves. 

Cowslips in an adjoining field pressed 
their bright gold against the blue, and 
primroses added a paler yellow to the 
symphony of color. 

As the road curved around the slope, 
we saw the Roman tower standing proud 
and solitary against the sky. Soon from 


42 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

our perch on the ruined stones we saw the 
valley spread out before us. A little river 
that finally flowed into the broad Severn 
dodged around the stone farmhouses hud¬ 
dled below. On the farther slope was a 
man-made patchwork quilt, a hodgepodge 
of different-colored fields, so tiny from 
the height of the fort that they resembled 
patches in a quilt. A wisp of smoke in the 
distance was coming from an ocean liner 
steaming up the river into Newport, ten 
miles away. 

Between us and Newport, but hidden 
by the surrounding hills, was the town of 
Caerleon, which was said to have been at 
one time the capital of Wales. According 
to tradition, King Arthur had his most 
dazzling court in Caerleon, when with his 
Knights of the Round Table he ruled and 
loved the land of Wales. Many legends 
of his life have come down through his¬ 
tory, the most beautiful of which are those 
written by the poet Tennyson. Because 


An Old Roman Road 43 

of him, almost every child knows the 
stories of Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail, 
Queen Guinevere, and Lancelot and 
Elaine. 

“ Caerleon,” Father explained, “was 
one of the oldest Roman stations in 
Briton. Roman Princes built luxurious 
palaces there, and tried to make of the 
town another Rome. In Caerleon to-day 
are many relics of those days. Ruins of 
an amphitheatre, of baths, temples and a 
fortress have been unearthed. Many of 
the houses in the village are partly built 
with Roman bricks, and the market place 
is supported by four Tuscan pillars. All 
are reminders of ancient conquerors who 
did not remain to enjoy their triumph.” 

I strained my eyes, but much as I 
wanted to, could not see Caerleon. So 
I turned again to the patchwork quilt 
across the valley. The numerous small 
fields stood out so clearly because they 
were divided by hedgerows, which are 


44 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

barriers of soil about five feet wide on the 
bottom, narrowing to three feet at the 
top, and about four to five feet high. 

On the way home we encountered many 
of these rows, and found them covered 
with blackberry brambles, and hazelnut 
bushes. We crossed them by means of 
stiles, rough wooden or stone steps as¬ 
cending and descending the rows. They 
were constructed to allow people to cross 
while still barring the sheep and the cows. 

The lane that took us home was lined 
with holly, which grows in profusion in 
some parts of Wales. Father said the 
leaves were prickly so that the donkeys 
wouldn’t eat them as they passed. There 
were a lot of wild roses, too, sweet-smell¬ 
ing and dainty. 

Hawthorn bushes, dressed in tiny blos¬ 
soms of pink and white, followed us right 
into town, sending, as we touched them, 
a shower of scented petals on our heads. 


CHAPTER IV 


SCHOOL DAYS 

School days in Wales were rather more 
uncomfortable than happy for me. There 
were always so many rattan canes lashing 
about, so much writing and arithmetic. 
Copy books had to be neatly filled with 
carefully written words, evenly spaced 
and shaded properly on each down stroke. 
One blot or one imperfect letter would 
bring the rattan cane stinging down on 
laboring knuckles. 

“ Look at that ‘ r the mistress would 
say. “ That is not an ‘ r ’. It needs only 
a dot to be an 4 i 

Swish! Down would come the cane, 
and I would add tears to the ink, which 
only made matters worse. 

We never could decide whether a thin 


45 


46 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

cane or a thick one caused the more 
damage. Some thought the thinner one 
hurt worse, because it could cut deeper, 
while others thought the thicker one the 
more deadly, since it was heavier. I was 
inclined to the latter belief, since the head¬ 
master, principal of the school, carried 
the thickest cane, and I was sure he’d have 
the best. 

He was the one who punished the worst 
offenders,—and the late ones. Promptly 
at nine o’clock, when the last bell had 
rung, the doors would be locked, and we 
unfortunates who had lingered too long 
over our breakfasts or stockings would 
have to line up and await our punishment 
outside the door. 

Soon we would hear the fall of the 
master’s footsteps as he strode down the 
hall, and then the sound of the key turn¬ 
ing in the lock. And as the door would 
open we would simultaneously hold out 
our hands as if elbows and door were on 



47 


School Days 

the same hinge. One by one we took our 
punishment and filed in, until the late 
ones were all in school and could spend 
the rest of the day comparing welts to 
see whose was the largest, and who, there¬ 
fore, was the hero of the morning. 

We thought it appropriate if, in 
punishing a child for a mistake in writing, 

the mistress should raise such a welt on 

» 

his hand that it could not be used for 
writing. We always contrived, therefore, 
to put the right hand forward, and, of 
course, for the first few lashes we’d always 
pull away, for hadn’t one of the boys said 
that the headmaster, on missing a hand, 
had once stung himself on the knee in¬ 
stead? 

We had, though, a tremendous respect 
for our teachers. We always answered 
“ Yes, miss,” or “ No, sir,” and the boys 
never failed to tip their hats on meeting 
a teacher on the street. Deportment and 
manners were important branches of our 


48 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

training. We also had a natural reverence 
for learning that was a heritage, no doubt, 
from years gone by when our forefathers 
had to sacrifice so much and fight so hard 
that their children might be educated. 

The history of the splendid universities 
that now dot Wales is a comparatively 
recent one. The first Welsh University 
was established in Aberystwyth in 1872, 
a product of the zeal and sacrifice of 
farmers and miners, who painfully saved 
their pennies that their children might 
know the privilege of a higher education 
in their own land. 

It is an interesting fact that the family 
of Elihu Yale, who was one of the found¬ 
ers of Yale University two hundred years 
ago, were natives of Bryn-Eglwys, a town 
in North Wales that is often referred to as 
the cradle of Yale. Elihu Yale himself is 
buried in a church in Wrexham, ten miles 
away. Near Snowdon is the ancestral 
home of Thomas Jefferson, and the Welsh 


School Days 49 

insist that from the foothills of Mount 
Snowdon came Madoc, son of the Prince 
of Gwynedd, to discover America three 
centuries before Columbus was born! 

As I look back now, kindergarten days 
were very pleasant. Welsh children 
usually began school at a very early age, 
many of them as young as three years. 
So school days were play days for the 
beginners. I remember being placed in 
a swing that was enclosed in a fish net 
as a protection against falling out, and 
being swung high over the heads of the 
other children. This was a reward for 
having properly recognized (or guessed) 
the identity of a large printed letter held 
up by the mistress. Sometimes the re¬ 
ward would be to play in a game of “ ring 
around the rosy ” by the teacher’s desk. 
Later we modeled in plasticine, making 
birds’ nests and filling them with eggs, 
and rolling endless snakes. 

Several of my friends in Pontypool 


50 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

went to boarding school. Many mothers 
and fathers in Wales considered it wise 
to send their boys and girls into the world, 
as it were, at a very early age, believing 
that they could become better men and 
women by learning when very young to 
adapt themselves to the ways of others. 
For the same reason many of our children 
were sent to live for awhile with English 
or French families, who in turn sent their 
children to us, that they might learn the 
customs and language of a new land. 

It was always a welcome change in our 
daily school program when we (the girls) 
would lay aside our books and take up our 
sewing. First we learned to do plain 
running stitches on tiny pieces of lawn. 
When we had mastered these, we gradu¬ 
ated to hemming, then backstitching, 
feather-stitching, and smocking. We 
were given red thread as a start, but as 
our work improved we were allowed to use 
pale blue. This was an honor, but not 


51 


School Days 

so great as being allowed to sew with white 
thread. That was a sign of almost per¬ 
fect work, and we really worked hard to 
be put in the white-thread class. 

A Welsh school would consider itself 
derelict in its duty to Wales if the girls 
were not taught to knit. In the third 
standard we began to spend a portion of 
the day over our knitting needles, pain¬ 
fully reciting to ourselves, “ two plain,—' 
two purl. Two plain,—two purl.” We 
began on small samples of plain knitting 
with bone needles. Then we “ two plain’d 
and two purl’d,” and were extremely 
proud of the tight little pieces of ribbed 
knitting that would, when pulled, stretch 
out like an accordion. 

Besides the knitting, there were prep¬ 
arations that were always delightful. 
Skeins of wool had to be formed into 
balls, one of us holding the skein over out¬ 
stretched hands, the other winding the 
ball. The yarn would unwind from the 



52 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

skein like a tiny locomotive going around 
a track, and would tickle as it tugged at 
our thumbs and signaled us to pull them 
out of the way. 

As we reached the higher grades, we 
learned to use steel needles, and then the 
classroom seemed to bristle like an angry 
porcupine as we plied them through the 
maze of a stocking or a glove. The in¬ 
tricate turning of a heel or the beginning 
of a finger was an affair of great fascina¬ 
tion. 

It was a real disappointment that on 
coming to America I had to leave my 
Welsh school before I entered the last 
standard, when I should have joined the 
domestic science class which met in a 
little house at the end of the playground. 
There I would have had a real house to 
help take care of, with dishes to wash, 
floors to scrub, and dinners to cook. 

The most interesting part was that at 
a certain time each day a real live baby 


53 


School Days 

was brought in, a laughing, crying, howl¬ 
ing person on whom the girls learned the 
proper care of an infant. There were, you 
see, to be no details lacking in equipping 
us as future Welsh housewives. The girls 
learned to wash the baby, to dress him, 
to know about his various ills, and to turn 
him over to his mother at the proper times. 

I was terribly disappointed about that 
infant. I would, I was sure, never in my 
life have another chance to wash a real 
baby. 

While we were learning to be good 
mothers, our cultural education was not 
neglected. We spent many hours over 
our drawing and water colors. We drew 
holly, snowdrops, school bags, mistletoe, 
and apples from models placed on our 
desks. We liked to draw apples, because 
when we finished the drawing we ate 
the model. 

Almost every child took piano lessons 
after school, and here, again, that old 


54 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

spectre of corporal punishment arose to 
haunt us. The piano teacher had a ruler 
which worked very efficiently. Whenever 
a sour note was struck, the sound would 
travel direct from her ears to her arm, 
and down to the ruler, which would im¬ 
mediately descend on the knuckles of the 
offending hand. This was always a 
nervous strain, for even though you 
seldom got struck, there was always the 
fear that you might at any time set that 
terrifying machinery in motion. I never 
learned to play the piano, but found, in¬ 
stead, real joy in learning to dance. 

School life was not without its drama. 
Our heads were always buzzing with the 
harrowing stories of Welsh history. 
Every page was red with blood. We saw 
our beloved heroes hunger in their moun¬ 
tain retreats; triumphantly hold a be¬ 
sieged castle with only a handful of men 
while hordes of English stormed about the 
walls; reach the heights of glory and 


55 


School ID ays 

bravery, only finally to lose their heads to 
the enemy, who would callously stick them 
on the points of spears and parade them 
through the streets of London while the 
mob jeered. 

Prince Llewellyn, the last of the real 
Welsh Princes, suffered this fate. He 
was cut down and badly wounded by an 
English soldier who chanced to meet him 
in a wooded glen, and who had not 
recognized him. When the soldier re¬ 
turned, however, to plunder the still 
breathing form, he became aware of his 
victim’s identity. He therefore im¬ 
mediately cut off the Prince’s head and 
sent it to King Edward at Conway. 
From there it was carried to London, 
where, as a mockery of the old Welsh 
prophecy that a Welsh Prince should yet 
ride crowned through London, it was 
crowned with ivy and paraded on a spear¬ 
head to the Tower of London. 

Much less harrowing were the legends 


56 When I Was a Gi?'l in Wales 

of Wales, and particularly interesting 
were the stories relating to the leek and 
the daffodil, national emblems of Wales. 

Their origin goes back to the time of 
Henry VII, who, in the days before he 
became King of England, wandered 
secretly through his native Wales, meeting 
and planning with his people. Because he 
was being closely watched by the Eng¬ 
lish, it was necessary that he make himself 
known by some sign, and for this he used 
the colors of his coat of arms, green and 
white. Thus, meeting his partisans in a 
field, he would identify himself by pulling 
up anything that showed a green top and 
white root, such as a blade of grass or a 
wild daffodil. If they met in a house, a 
leek or an onion would be held up as a 
sign. From this beginning, the leek and 
then the daffodil came to be the national 
Welsh emblems. 

An amusing tale tells of how a Welsh 
leader captured his English rival, and, 


Scliool Days 57 

because he had made fun of the leeks, 
made him eat bunches of them as punish¬ 
ment. 

At any rate, on March 1, the day of St. 
David, our patron saint, we wore leeks 
pinned to our dresses if we were very con¬ 
scientious, but daffodils if we were more 
fastidious. The day was also celebrated 
with a great deal of singing, every town 
holding annual songfests, or Gymanfau 
Ganu, on that day. 

In many parts of Wales, St. Patrick’s 
day, March 17, was celebrated with as 
much enthusiasm as it was in Ireland. 
We regarded St. Patrick as our own, 
for according to legend he was born in 
Llandeilo Talybont, in South Wales. 
With the coming of St. David, he was 
supposed to have left Wales to do mis¬ 
sionary work in Ireland. 


CHAPTER V 


PAGEANTS AND PLAYS 

We were going to Cardiff to see a great 
pageant, and I was so excited. Myfanwy 
Beynon, one of my friends, was to take 
part, and this was a great honor for her, 
since people from all over Wales were 
going to participate in the affair, which 
was to be held in the spacious grounds of 
Cardiff Castle. 

I visited with Myfanwy the day before 
we were to leave for Cardiff, and she 
tried on the Welsh costume she was going 
to wear. She belted the striped woolen 
skirt about her waist, tied on a large 
woolen apron, and fitted a shawl of the 
same material neatly on her shoulders. 
On her head she placed a white frilled 
cap, and then the tall beaver hat that is 


58 


59 


Pageants and Plays 

the outstanding characteristic of the 
Welsh costume. 

Myfanwy was a little disappointed in 
her part. She wanted to wear a costume 
of other days, something “ foreign,” not 
one which many Welsh women were still 
wearing. I pointed out that the beaver 
hat was distinctive, but Myfanwy said 
that a number of women still wore them. 
“ Hatters still make them by the hun¬ 
dreds,” she said, “ for the old-fashioned 
ones who like to cling to the old styles.” 

“ And everybody wears shawls,” she 
pouted. “ Mother wears one to go shop¬ 
ping, and in the house when the weather 
is chilly. And always to carry the baby 
around.” 

I didn’t mention it, but I thought then 
how nice it was to carry a baby in a shawl, 
“ Welsh fashion.” You took the shawl, 
—a very large one with fringe on the 
edges, folded it in a triangle, and placed 
it over your shoulders. Then you took 


60 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the baby and, holding him on your left 
arm, tucked one of the corners around 
him. Then you brought the other corner 
around and held that in the hand that was 
holding the baby. And there you had 
him, warm, snug and well supported, 
while still leaving your right hand free for 
other things. 

Myfanwy and I had never seen a 
pageant, and we wondered if it would 
be much fun. 

“ It can’t be much nicer than the garden 
parties Squire Hanley gives us,” My¬ 
fanwy said. 

I agreed. Every year the Hanley 
estate was thrown open to the people of 
Pontypool for a masquerade in which 
every one took part. We played games,— 
Maypole dances and races,—competed for 
prizes, scrambled for pennies in the grass, 
and consumed a lot of tea and cake. I 
still have the little Dutch-girl dress I wore 
to my last garden party in Wales, and a 



Pageants and Plays 61 

vivid recollection of Father’s antics on 
that day. 

He was dressed up as the leader of a 
very strange band, the members of which 
were all disguised as tramps. They rode 
around the town playing beautiful music, 
for they were real musicians. But Father 
would tap them on the heads with the ten- 
foot bamboo pole he used as a baton, and 
then they would play false notes, while he 
would pretend to be angrier than ever. 
The long black hair of the wig he wore 
kept getting in his eyes and his high silk 
hat kept falling off. Mother watched it 
worriedly, for it was the one he wore to 
church, and she would have to brush the 
shine back for next Sunday. 

The band entered the carnival lawns in 
an old haywagon, and won first prize as 
the funniest outfit. 

“Remember the Fair?” Myfanwy asked 
suddenly. “ I wonder if the pageant will 
be as nice as that? ” 


62 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

The Fair was wonderful, I admitted, 
especially the ride to the Fair grounds. 
We always went in brakes, which were 
high wagons holding rows of benches. 
That was great adventure, sitting high 
above the horses and riding importantly 
through the town. 

At the Fair we saw the usual things 
that Fairs offer,—puppets, fireworks, 
balloon ascensions, colored pop, tight¬ 
rope walkers, games of chance, and horse 
races. And there were gypsies, at whom 
we gazed in awe,—from a safe distance. 
Gypsies, we knew, stole little children and 
brought them up in wagons that roamed 
all over the country. We regarded them 
a little wistfully. If only they would 
take mothers and fathers along, too! 

There was always plenty of amusement 
in Pontypool. We had a nice theatre, 
trimmed inside in gold and red plush. 
New players came to town every week. 
Sometimes we had pantomimes and 




63 


Pageants and Plays 

musical plays, and at other times more 
serious plays such as “ The Sign of the 
Cross,” “ The Christian,” and “ The 
Silver King.” 

The movies hadn’t reached us yet, 
although I had been to a “ cinemato¬ 
graph ” at the seaside and had there seen 
my first moving picture, an ocean scene. 
The orchestra played “ Over the Waves,” 
while the sea swished in a most realistic 
manner, the effect produced, I later 
learned, by the rubbing together of two 
pieces of sandpaper behind the screen. 

After the performance we had tea in 
the lounge of the theatre. A Welsh¬ 
man cannot very well miss his tea, no 
matter in what situation he finds himself. 
A rather exaggerated story insists that our 
firemen, engaged in putting out a blaze, 
will drop hose and hatchet at tea time, so 
strong is the urge for a cup of tea. 

Welsh people like to act almost as 
much as they like to sing, and the Sunday 


64 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

School room of the church was usually 
the scene of some sort of performance. 
It seemed to me that Father and Mother 
were always acting, and that I was usually 
spoiling the scene. 

Father took the part of a dying king in 
one play, and as the curtain went up and 
I saw him lying there pale and lifeless I 
broke away from Mother in the audience, 
ran crying down the aisle, and tried to 
climb up over the footlights. Father 
relinquished his part long enough to sit 
up in bed and tell me that everything 
was all right, that he was only fooling. 
I stopped crying then, and the play went 
on, but it was hard for Father to die 
convincingly after that. 

I took my drama much too seriously. 
At another church performance Mother 
and Father were singing a love duet 
dressed in gypsy costumes, and just as 
I recognized them, Father sang at the top 
of his voice: 


Pageants and Plays 65 

“ Oh, marry me, beloved! Let us fly away 
to-night.” 

I could see that they had forgotten all 
about me, so I screamed as loud as I could, 
“Mama! Daddy! Tak eme!” 

Mother said afterwards that I had 
destroyed the illusion of the song, for 
the audience, whenever Father repeated, 
“ Oh, marry me, beloved,” just laughed 
and grinned. 

The pageant turned out to be all we 
expected, and more. The well preserved 
walls of Cardiff Castle formed a perfect 
background for the historical scenes that 
were presented. The grounds were bright 
with colorful costumes. Druids and 
Romans, Welsh peasants and soldiers 
mingled on the lawns as they prepared 
to enact their individual performances. 

As the pageant began, I tried to find 
Myfanwy in the throng of players that 
moved below our platform, but she was 
dressed so much like the hundreds about 


66 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

her that it was impossible to single her 
out of the crowd. 

As spears and lances of uniformed 
soldiers glittered in the sun, and banners 
floated high as horses and soldiers lunged 
about, Father leaned closer to me and 
quietly began explaining the action. 

“ It is the story of one of the most im¬ 
portant and thrilling battles in Welsh 
history, the battle that in 1485 placed 
Henry Tudor on the throne of England 
and thus fulfilled the ancient prophesy 
and bitterly-fought-for desire of the Welsh 
to be ruled by a King of their own blood. 

“ Henry has been marching through 
Wales, gathering an army. The people 
are afire with the enterprise. And now 
he is to meet King Richard III on Bos- 
worth Field outside of Leicester. The 
small Welsh army three times resists 
Richard’s advance, and after terrific 
fighting Richard rushes forward for per¬ 
sonal combat with Henry Tudor. Rich- 


67 


Pageants and Plays 

ard is cut down, and his crown placed on 
the head of the Tudor, who is thereby 
announced King Henry VII of Eng¬ 
land,—and Wales.” 

I tried hard to follow the unfolding 
of the drama as it was presented, but 
still all I could see were horses, soldiers, 
uniforms, and flags. I was glad Father 
knew what it was all about. 

“ Henry,” Father concluded, “ entered 
London in triumph, surrounded by Welsh¬ 
men and flying the Red Dragon of 
Wales. Thus began the reign of the 
Tudors and the beginning of the modern 
world. Under the reign of the Welsh 
Henry VIII and then of his daughter, 
Queen Elizabeth, Wales came into her 
own, and the great esteem in which the 
Welsh were held is clearly reflected in 
the plays of Shakespeare, which were 
written during the Tudor reign.” 

I reached for Father’s hand and found 
that it was trembling. His face was pale, 



68 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

his eyes glowing, and suddenly I real¬ 
ized that it was a serious matter, this 
pride of nationality. As I see it now, it 
is a tremendous, poignant thing, this 
fervor of a sensitive, indomitable people, 
striving furiously through the ages only 
to defend their beloved home in the hills. 


CHAPTER VI 


CHURCHES AND CASTLES 

Wales is a land of castles. Welsh¬ 
men built them to defend their country 
against invasion. Then as the invaders 
gained footholds in the country they, too, 
built castles to maintain their hold on the 
land. And as the Welsh built castles 
they erected churches, too, that rivaled 
them in the strength and luxury of their 
construction. But strength and luxury 
have their day, and many beautiful cathe¬ 
drals and castles are now crumbling ruins 
through which cows wander in search of 
food. 

Thoughts of church in Wales always 
bring to my mind memories of Sunday 
School excursions to beautiful Raglan 
Castle. It stood, as castles usually do, 


69 


70 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

high above the countryside, and although 
it was a roofless ruin, it was at one time 
both a luxurious home and a stronghold 
in time of war. 

There had been many beautiful stained 
glass windows, great beams of carved oak, 
towers, galleries, marble fireplaces, li¬ 
braries of rare books, and cellars of still 
rarer wines. They all went to make it 
home. 

As a fortress, it had walls that were 
in some places over ten feet thick, and 
tower windows that were mere slits on 
the outside, but wide within so that a 
number of bowmen could stand at a win¬ 
dow and shoot many arrows at one time 
without much danger of being struck 
themselves. Stairways were built in spiral 
fashion so that the man above had the 
advantage over the one below in that 
his sword arm was free to slash down¬ 
wards. Entrances were built very nar¬ 
row so that ten men on the inside could 


Churches and Castles 71 

defend them against a hundred invaders. 

Centuries later, we were playing games 
and eating lunches within walls that had 
seen men fight and die, and which were 
now dying themselves. But although the 
walls were crumbling, the lawns and 
grounds were still kept in excellent con¬ 
dition. Peacocks strutted about, and 
squirrels chattered in the ancient trees. 

On one of the lawns was a marble pool 
which had once been a beautiful fountain. 
Little mounds of shoes and stockings now 
circled its rim as the younger children 
splashed and paddled in the water. 

During the morning of our picnic we 
devoted ourselves to the more strenu¬ 
ous of our activities. We swung around 
a Maypole set up in the castle court in 
a way the originators of the custom could 
hardly have anticipated. The Maypole 
began as a center for a ceremonial May 
Day dance, with little girls daintily hold¬ 
ing the ends of long ribbons attached to 


72 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the top of the pole, and skipping lightly 
around. 

At some time or another a few of the 
more tomboyish girls must have taken a 
fancy to leaning too heavily on the rib¬ 
bons, and dancing a little too fast. At 
any rate, the Maypole we used was a very 
strong pole with a revolving top to which 
heavy ropes were attached, with iron 
rings at the ends for our hands. We 
would swing furiously until a slight feel¬ 
ing of nausea warned us that if we ex¬ 
pected to enjoy lunch we had better get 
two feet on the ground. 

Then we would swarm up the winding 
stairway that led to the top of the tower, 
five stories above. The crumbling steps 
were steep and uneven. Dainty flowers 
and ferns led a precarious existence be¬ 
tween the stones. We became slightly 
dizzy before we reached the top, and 
breathless, too. But the view was worth 
the climb. We could look over the ruins 



LOW TIDE AT ILFRACOMBE 















THE ROCKS OF ILFRACOMBE 




Churches and Castles 73 

at our feet, and then over the rolling hills 
and imagine we were soldiers besieged 
in the castle and watching for the enemy. 

Perhaps up there we gave a thought 
to the other castles in Wales, and the stir¬ 
ring stories they tell. Of Harlech Castle 
in the North, the gallant defense of which 
in 1468 inspired the stirring words of the 
now famous “March of the Men of Har¬ 
lech.” 

We might have thought of Caernarvon 
Castle, where stone men still stood guard 
in the turrets where the English placed 
them centuries ago to deceive the Welsh 
into thinking the castle was always 
guarded. 

It was here that the first Prince of 
Wales was presented to the Welsh, who 
had long begged King Edward I of Eng¬ 
land to appoint a Prince to rule over 
them in his name, a man who could speak 
neither French nor English, a true Welsh¬ 


man. 


74 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

King Edward acceded to their wishes 
and thereupon presented them with his 
infant son Edward. He was, the King 
said, born in Wales, of blameless char¬ 
acter, knew no French nor English, and 
his first words should be Welsh. 

The Welsh chieftains, while knowing 
they had been tricked, nevertheless ac¬ 
cepted with good grace, and solemnly 
came forward and kissed the child’s hand 
as a sign of their approval. 

A moment later the baby was placed 
on his father’s shield and borne to the 
gates of Caernarvon Castle, where he 
was proclaimed Edward, Prince of 
Wales. Ever since then the first-born 
son of the King of England has been 
proclaimed the Prince of Wales. 

We usually descended the tower in a 
subdued mood, and very hungry. Lunch 
would be set out on long tables in the 
great hall of the castle. And where lords 
of Wales once ate venison and drank 


Churches and Castles 75 

huge goblets of wine, where dogs rested 
on the rushes that were strewn on the 
floor and gnawed at the bones and scraps 
thrown from the tables, we discreetly sat 
on wooden benches and daintily ate our 
boiled ham and tomatoes, being careful 
that no crumbs fell for the ladies to 
sweep up. 

Beneath us as we ate were the dungeons 
of the castle, ominous and dark. We 
should have been impressed, perhaps, 
thinking of the dark deeds that had been 
done below. But as they probably did 
in the olden days, we ate heartily, with¬ 
out a single disquieting thought. How 
could it be otherwise, with our mothers 
sitting next to us, the Ladies’ Aid brew¬ 
ing tea at the end of the table, and the 
minister laughing in the corner with his 
mouth full of ham? 

When lunch was over we walked quietly 
about the grounds, scaling fallen walls 
and reaching for flowers. We explored 


76 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the ancient kitchen with its remarkable 
fireplace, which was large enough, we 
could see, to roast an ox whole. We 
crossed the bridge over the moat, an en¬ 
circling depth of water which in days 
gone by had made of the castle a virtual 
island, impenetrable from without and 
difficult of escape from within. 

The day was rounded out by a scramble 
on the old bowling green for the bright- 
colored candies that were scattered among 
us on the grass, on the same lawn where 
in the 17th century Charles I had often 
stood and admired the view. 

If in the ensuing struggle we obtained 
no candies, at least we never came away 
empty-handed. There would usually be 
the imprint of some one’s heel on the 
backs of our reaching hands. The one 
who found the most candies was given 
a prize, which I thought was richly de¬ 
served. 

Those visits to Raglan Castle were 


Churches and Castles 77 

among the happiest times in my life, and 
when twilight began to fall it was with 
real regret that I said good-bye to the 
crumbling walls, so kindly-looking in the 
waning light, like a tired veteran who 
has lived long, fought hard, and found 
life just a little wearisome. And as the 
castle faded into the darkness, the ivy 
seemed to close in tighter against the 
tired stones, as if to console them for their 
departed youth. 

Every Sunday Mother took our best 
clothes from the drawer where they had 
lain since the Sunday before. Father 
waxed his mustache and twirled the ends 
into bristling points, brushed his frock 
coat, and polished up his top hat and 
walking stick, and presently we were 
walking down the quiet street to church, 
urged to hasten by the chiming of the 
church bells. 

The town was very still. There was 
a special air about Sunday that no other 


78 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

day possessed. Everything was so quiet 
that the roosters always seemed to crow 
more shrilly and the dogs bark louder, 
so that even now I never hear a rooster 
crow but that I think of Sunday in Wales. 

When church was over we went to 
Sunday School. Our religious education 
was a very serious matter, and the rules 
were as strict as those in public school. 
We had to take frequent tests, and it was 
necessary that we pass a formal examina¬ 
tion before being admitted into a higher 
grade. 

Of the special services in the church, 
Harvest Home, our service of thanks¬ 
giving, was the most colorful. Fruits and 
vegetables were lavishly banked near the 
altar and choir loft, wheat was stacked at 
the entrance to the pews, and huge loaves 
of bread were placed in the front of the 
church. After the service, the food was 
sent to the hospitals and the poor. 

Good Friday was observed with much 


Churches and Castles 79 

solemnity, and many superstitious cus¬ 
toms were connected with the day. The 
birth of a child on that day was con¬ 
sidered very unlucky, and any work be¬ 
gun on this Friday was regarded as 
doomed to certain failure. Housewives 
arranged to do all their work the day 
before, many feeling that even the act 
of discarding dishwater was a sacrilege. 
“It’s like throwing out the Savior’s blood,” 
one of our neighbors asserted. 

We ate hot cross buns religiously on 
that day. In olden times we would have 
saved a few to be placed in a bag and 
hung up for use as a medicine. A nibble 
of one of these in time of sickness was 
held to be a sure cure, and had, further¬ 
more, the very enviable power of being 
able to frighten away evil spirits. 

Easter was celebrated with the conven¬ 
tional happiness, and we were always care¬ 
ful to wear some new article of dress on 
that day, many of the superstitious be- 


80 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

lieving that dire things would happen to 
those who didn’t wear at least a new 
ribbon. 

Easter Monday was once the occasion 
for a peculiar custom. Bands of young 
men would go about carrying a chair, 
and on meeting a young woman would 
compel her to sit in it. She would then 
be lifted three times in the air, while 
everybody cheered. The lady would take 
the ceremony with good grace, while men¬ 
tally noting the identity of her captors. 
Next night, when the ladies took their 
turns at the custom, she would be sure to 
see that these particular young men would 
not escape the '‘lifting.” 

On Whitsunday many Welsh families, 
particularly in the farming regions, main¬ 
tained the custom of adorning the dinner 
table with a whole roasted lamb, just 
as we in America have turkeys on Christ¬ 
mas and Thanksgiving. (Roast lamb 
with mint sauce is a favorite food among 
the Welsh; the sauce is made of mint 


Churches and Castles 81 

leaves chopped fine and stirred into a mix¬ 
ture of vinegar, water, sugar and salt.) 

On a hill overlooking Pontypool was 
Trefethin Church, which was over five 
hundred years old. It was covered with 
ivy, and nestling close to the ground 
looked like part of the soil itself. 

The people of the church still cherished 
a pair of ancient dog tongs, “ gefail 
gwn,” an implement like a coal tongs in 
appearance and common in old Welsh 
country churches. In the olden days the 
sheep dogs used to follow their masters to 
church, and, being well trained and kindly, 
were allowed to sleep under the pews. 

Sometimes, however, dog tempers 
would clash, and there would be a fight. 
The church service would then be sus¬ 
pended until the dogs could be separated. 
Some one would come running up with the 
dog tongs, which, when clasped about a 
furry form, made a powerful puller, and 
a protection against stray bites. 

It is said that a minister’s dog, 


82 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

“ Taffy,” one Sunday got into a fight 
with another which was so exciting that 
the congregation and even the minister 
forgot they were in church, and gathered 
about to watch. But when one of the 
deacons suddenly shouted “ Three to one 
on Taffy! ” the minister recovered his 
propriety and quickly called for the dog 
tongs. 

I think the most dramatic of our church 
services was the one which accompanied 
a Welshman to his grave. On this sad 
occasion relatives and friends found sol¬ 
ace in song, and formed a very impres¬ 
sive procession as they carried and fol¬ 
lowed the bier to the graveyard, all sing¬ 
ing as they trudged along the old Welsh 
hymns they loved. At the cemetery they 
grouped around the grave and continued 
to sing, drowning out the mournful 
sounds incident to the covering of the 
coffin. 


CHAPTER VII 


A VISIT TO ABERRANT 

The brass knocker on the door of Aunt 
Blodwyn’s house in Abernant was gleam¬ 
ing like gold. The doorstep was white 
with chalk, as were all the steps of the 
little stone houses in the row. They stood 
shoulder to shoulder like a line of soldiers 
at attention, neat and trim and clean. 

Across the way was a deep gully, and 
then a field, and then the gaunt, black¬ 
ened structure of a coal pit. At the end 
of the row of houses was a tall, black culm 
pile, made of waste from the mines, and 
which, next day, I was to use as a slide, 
only to discover that it was not at all 
suited to that purpose, especially when 
one’s costume was a white knitted suit. 

We knocked on the door, and presently 


83 


84 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

we were in Aunt Blodwyn’s kitchen, and 
I was saying good-bye to Mother and 
Father, who were going to an Eisteddfod 
in North Wales. 

When they had left, I sat on a kitchen 
chair while Aunt finished up her morn¬ 
ing’s work. She had already polished 
the brass knocker and letter slot in the 
front door, and scrubbed and chalked the 
doorstep. The hearth of the kitchen fire¬ 
place had also been whitened. Now she 
was sweeping the sand off the stone slabs 
of the kitchen floor. 

“ Why do you put sand down, Aunt 
Blodwyn? ” I asked. 

“ Well, you see, dear, it makes the work 
a lot easier, for when milk and grease spill 
to the floor, the sand soaks them up, and 
so they do not stain the stones. And it’s 
a lot nicer to sweep sand out every morn¬ 
ing than to have to scrub the stones. Of 
course,” she added hastily, “I scrub the 
floor every Friday night. I take a nice 


A Visit to Abernant 85 

flat stone and rub the floor with it, sand 
and all, until the sand is nearly white. 
I leave it like that until morning, then I 
sweep out the sand, and scrub the stones 
with soap and water.” 

She began taking fresh sand out of 
the oven and scattering it about. 

“ It must be very slippery,” I said. 

“ It is, if you’re not used to it. And,” 
she added with twinkling eyes, “mind 
you don’t go sliding around and pushing 
it under the tables and chairs.” 

It would be a shame to do that, I 
agreed, because Aunt had scattered the 
sand so evenly that it looked like a golden 
carpet on the floor. 

When the kitchen was done, we went 
outside and sprinkled more sand on the 
flagstone garden path and in the outside 
kitchen. It was wonderful how neat it 
made things look. 

I spent the rest of the morning sliding 
down the path, having promised to replace 


86 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the sand when I was through. At the 
end of the path was Aunt’s flower garden. 
She had lovely flowers. Velvety wall¬ 
flowers, sweet William, canterbury bells 
and hollyhocks were against the wall, 
with mignonette along the borders, which 
were bounded by rows of tiny cockle 
shells. The fresh, moist scent of the 
flowers was delightful. 

In the afternoon the men began com¬ 
ing home from the mines, tired and dirty 
from their day underground. Uncle 
Samuel and my cousin Cledwyn came 
into the kitchen, their faces black with 
coal dust, white only in rims around their 
eyes. 

Uncle said, “ So this is my little niece 
from Pontypool. Come, give us a kiss,” 
and he held out his arms. 

“ Go along with you, Sam,” Aunt said 
as I backed against her. “ The child 
doesn’t know you’re fooling. Go in the 
front room, darling, while they wash up.” 


A Visit to Abernant 87 

There was a great bustling in the 
kitchen as water was poured into tubs 
from the kettles that had been hanging 
over the open fire. And when, presently, 
we all sat down to tea, Uncle Sam and 
Cledwyn looked very different. Their 
faces were pink and shiny from the soap, 
and they had changed their clothes. Their 
mining suits had been put in the outside 
kitchen, where Aunt would wash them 
for the next day. It must have been very 
hard work getting them clean, for they 
had to be rubbed over a washboard, and 
all the water had to be carried in from 
the well. 

Cledwyn was quiet while he was eating, 
for he was tired. He was only fourteen 
years old, yet he had worked like a man 
in the pit. But he never complained. He 
wanted to be regarded as a man, to load 
as much coal as his father, to bring home 
as much wages. He was proud to be do¬ 
ing a man’s work. But Aunt sometimes 


88 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

watched him wistfully. She had wanted 
him to be a musician. 

She was proud, though, that he had not 
been brought up in the mines, as had 
some of the neighboring children. It was 
the custom not long ago for miners to 

r 

take their small boys with them into the 
pit, where they would be counted as 
“ helpers,” thus enabling the father to 
take out and be credited with so many 
more loads of coal than he could if he 
were alone. Of course, the children 
didn’t really work in the mines. They 
played around in the gloomy caverns and 
probably had a fine time, although not 
getting their proper share of sunlight 
and schooling. 

When we had finished our tea,—the 
tiny sausages and pickled red cabbage, 
the large slices of home-made bread and 
Welsh cookies strongly flavored with nut¬ 
meg, Aunt got up to light the lamps. She 
took a “ spill ” from a brass vase on the 




CARDIFF CASTLE 










A WELSH CASTLE AND WELSH FISHERMEN 











A Visit to Abernant 89 

mantelpiece, and after lighting it at the 
coals, applied it to the oil lamp, which 
had previously been filled with paraffin 
oil. Earlier in the day she had shown me 
how the “ spills ” were made. How you 
took square pieces of newspaper and rolled 
them into tight, bias cylinders, turning 
back the ends to keep them from unroll¬ 
ing. These saved matches, which were 
not so common then as they are now. 

After tea, Uncle Sam and Cledwyn 
went off to singing school. They were re¬ 
hearsing strenuously those days, for the 
chorus to which they belonged was soon 
to compete in a local Eisteddfod. 

“ They’ve got their hearts set on win¬ 
ning the prize this year,” Aunt explained. 
“ Cledwyn tells me that they’re even prac¬ 
tising down in the pit, and if that’s so, I 
don’t know how they get any work done, 
for when they start singing—! ” 

“ Is it very dangerous, working in the 
pit? ” I asked. 



90 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

“Bad enough, although the mines in 
Abernant are not so dangerous as in some 
places. There’s no gas underground 
here, and the colliers can light their 
candles without much danger of an explo¬ 
sion. In most mines there is that awful 
black damp, which has cost so many men 
their lives. Hundreds have been trapped 
underground by explosions and have died 
there because of it.” 

Aunt Blodwyn took the lamp and car¬ 
ried it to the outside kitchen, and I fol¬ 
lowed her and sat on a bench while she 
washed out the mine clothes. 

“ And that is why,” she continued, “ so 
many miners are superstitious. They go 
down into the pit every day not knowing 
but that it will be their last. There is 
danger everywhere. I remember your 
uncle telling of the time he was deep 
down in the pit far from the other work¬ 
ers, when suddenly he had a premonition 
of danger, and immediately crouched 


A Visit to Abernant 91 

down to avoid it, whatever it was. As he 
peered into the darkness he saw that 
he was balanced over a winze, a sort of 
precipice, and there was the next level, 
sixty feet below. He had been about to 
step off, to his death, probably.” 

“ And so,” I suggested, “ the miners 

are always watching for signs that might 

* 

warn them of danger.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Aunt. We were 
now back in the kitchen, and she was lay¬ 
ing the wet clothes over the fender so 
that they would be dry for the morning. 
She had also brought in a pan of damp 
sand to put in the oven so that it, also, 
w r ould be dry for the morning. She 
never rested a minute, for when the sand 
was in the oven she began scrubbing the 
floor with a large stone so that it would 
be ready for the soap and water in the 
morning. 

“ Most of the men will not go into the 
pit on Christmas Day nor on Good Fri- 


92 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

day, believing that if they do, an acci¬ 
dent is bound to happen. A terrible 
disaster occurred on Ascension Day some 
time ago, and since then that day, too, has 
been regarded as very unlucky for miners. 
One time the men refused to go down 
because they heard ominous noises the 
night before, and were sure that they 
were warning them of impending danger. 
And so it goes. It is a hard and danger¬ 
ous work. How the women could stand 
it, I don’t know.” 

“ Do women work in the mines?” I 
asked in surprise. 

“ They don’t now, but they used to 
when I was a girl. Although some ac¬ 
tually dug in the pit, most of them worked 
on the top, tipping the cars as they came 
out of the mines. They would come home 
with the men at night, just as tired and 
just as black.” 

Before Uncle Sam and Cledwyn came 
home, Aunt had scrubbed the kitchen 


A Visit to Abernant 93 

chairs and had placed them in “ the other 
room,” the parlor, which was used only 
on special occasions, such as a marriage 
or a death or for very special visitors. 

“ Some of the women leave the chairs 
there until Sunday,” Aunt said, “ so they 
won’t get dirty for the Sabbath. But I 
don’t believe in standing up to eat all day 
Saturday. I bring them back when I’m 
through scrubbing in the morning.” 

I couldn’t understand why Aunt Blod- 
wyn had to work so hard on Friday night. 

“Couldn’t you do some of it to-mor¬ 
row? ” I asked. 

“ Indeed, no. To-morrow’s baking 
day, when all the food’s got to be made 
ready for Sunday. You see, it is not 
right to work on the Lord’s day, and I 
do everything I can the day before, even 
to peeling potatoes, although I remember 
one time breaking the Sabbath, and be¬ 
ing punished for it, too.” 

Her eyes twinkled as she remembered. 


94 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

“ Your uncle had gone to church alone. 
I wasn’t feeling well, so I stayed home. 
And then I remembered that I had neg¬ 
lected to bake a pie for dinner. So I got 
to work quickly, and in no time at all the 
pie was in and out of the oven,—a nice 
rhubarb it was, too. I felt very guilty 
about baking it on Sunday, but I knew 
that your uncle would miss his pie. Well, 
I set it out on the garden bench to cool 
off, but when I went to get it for dinner, 
the chickens had eaten every speck! I 
have always thought that was my pun¬ 
ishment for baking on Sunday.” 

By the time I was ready for bed the 
brass candlesticks on the kitchen mantel¬ 
piece had been polished, and so had the 
Welsh dresser that Aunt Blodwyn called 
her shelf and dresser. It occupied one 
entire wall of the kitchen, and the best 
plates and cups were arranged neatly on 
the shelf. It was so shiny when Aunt was 
through polishing it with beeswax and 



A Visit to Abernant 95 

turpentine that I could see my face in 
the wood. 

After I had gone to bed, to sink deep 
into a feather mattress, Uncle Sam and 
Cledwyn came home, and they all had 
a late supper, in which I was too young to 
share. Uncle Sam had stopped at the 
fish and chip shop and had bought a bag 
of hot French fried potatoes and pieces of 
whitefish that had been dipped in batter 
and cooked to a golden brown in vats of 
hot fat. 

Sometimes they had small pork pies, 
tiny pickled onions, and jam tarts for 
supper,—things that were not good for 
children, although sometimes when I 
would stay awake and creep downstairs 
I would be allowed to nibble at the for¬ 
bidden food before being sent off to bed 
again. 

For breakfast next morning we had 
bakestone bread, which had been baked 
on a griddle placed over the coals, then 



96 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

split and eaten hot, with the butter melt¬ 
ing into it. The rest of the bread dough 
was standing in the pans, ready to be taken 
to the bakehouse at the end of the road. 

Almost every town in Wales had sev¬ 
eral bakehouses where the housewives 
could take their food to be baked in the 
large ovens. The baker usually charged 
twopence a loaf for baking the bread and 
about sixpence for a Sunday roast. 

“ That is how the whole neighborhood 
came to know that I was going to be 
married,” said Aunt with a reminiscent 
twinkle, as she placed the loaves on a little 
wagon and covered them with a clean 
cloth. “ Mother had taken the meat and 
the cakes for the wedding supper down to 
the bakehouse, and in no time at all every¬ 
body knew that there was to be a wedding 
at our house next day.” 

“ Did you have a nice wedding? ” I 
asked quickly, for like most girls I liked 
to hear about weddings. 


A Visit to Abernant 97 

“ Yes, indeed. We had a carriage to 
take us to the station, and two black 
horses. The driver wore a high silk hat, 
and the horses had white ears.” 

‘‘Real white ears? ” I asked in surprise. 

“No, silly. They were white canvas 
tabs tied over the horses ears. That is 
the custom for weddings, and it was the 
first thing I looked for when the horses 
pranced up to the house.” 

We were walking down the road to 
the bakehouse, and I was pulling the 
little wagonload of bread dough. Several 
women passed us on the way, their wooden 
shoes making a great clatter on the side¬ 
walk. Some wore shawls held closely 
over their shoulders and heads, for the 
air was quite chilly. 

The wooden shoes were called clogs, 
and were fastened on by means of brass 
bands buckled across the instep. Brass 
protectors in the front saved them from 
wear at the toes. They seemed clumsy 


98 When I Was a Girl in Wales 


and heavy, but Aunt Blodwyn explained 
that Welsh women liked them because 
they were so clean. 

“ They don’t carry a bit of dirt into 
the house,” she said. 

The clatter of clogs gave way to the 
clop, clop of a donkey’s hoofs as a two¬ 
wheeled coal cart went by. Presently 
its half-ton of coal would be dumped in 
front of some little house where later the 
mother and the children would carry it 
in baskets to the coal house in the rear. 

An onion man passed us, with long 
strings of onions hanging around his neck 
and looking like garlands of flowers. But 
there, of course, the resemblance ceased. 
The onion men were Bretons from France, 
a branch of the original Britons, and trav¬ 
eled from town to town with carts full of 
onions. 

Aunt was still thinking about her wed¬ 
ding, for she said: 

“ Dear me, and the time we had get- 


A Visit to Abernant 99 

ting to the station after the ceremony. 
The neighbors had stretched a rope across 
the road, and we had to throw out money 
before they would let us by. I didn’t 
mind that, for it was the custom, but this 
time they had put tar on the rope. If 
any of that tar— ” 

She shook her head, but didn’t finish 
the sentence, for we had reached the 
bakehouse, and soon the baker was put¬ 
ting the loaves in the oven with a long- 
handled shovel, and Aunt Blodwyn was 
saying that she would be back for them 
when they were done. 

Before I went to bed that Saturday 
night, a final bit of excitement came to 
cap a busy day. A bell began ringing 
some distance away, and as the sound 
came closer the people came out of the 
houses in our row and stood around chat¬ 
ting excitedly until finally a man came 
in view. He was ringing a large bell 
and demanding in a loud voice: 


> 

5 


1 > 


* > > 



100 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

“ Take notice! Take notice! ” 

And then he went on to shout a lot 
of things in Welsh that I could scarcely 
understand. He was the town crier, call¬ 
ing out the special news of the day, and 
people listened attentively, for he usually 
had some important message to announce, 
such as the news of a lost child, or some 
disaster in the mines. 

The nature of his calling was somewhat 
similar to that of a wandering poet who 
sometimes came to town. This man would 
sing the story of a recent dramatic occur¬ 
rence, a casualty at sea or some other 
harrowing disaster. He would stop at the 
inns and sing his song, and when it was 
finished he would pass around pamphlets 
on which were printed the words he had 
just sung. Then he would pass his hat 
around, and when it was jingling with 
coins he would quietly take his leave, paus¬ 
ing at the door to clear his throat for the 
next stop. 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN BEAUMARIS 

Our summer holidays were usually 
spent at some seaside resort, and because 
Wales possesses so much seacoast, we 
had a wide assortment of places from 
which to choose. There were the pebbly 
beaches of Ilfracombe, the sand dunes at 
Porthcawl and the smooth, golden sand of 
Llandudno. There were rocky beaches 
where we could wander among the rocks 
and find little crabs left stranded in shal¬ 
low pools by the retreating waves. 
There were overhanging cliffs shading 
stretches of beach so narrow that there 
was no room for our bathing machines, 
which had to be lowered to the beach 
from the top of the cliff by means of wind- 

101 


102 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

lasses, and raised in the same way when 
the tide came in. 

Our favorite resort was the seaport 
town of Beaumaris on the island of 
Anglesea in North Wales. It could be 
entered in two ways: by boat from Liver¬ 
pool, or by carriage over the Menai 
Bridge, one of the finest suspension 
bridges in the world at the time it was 
built, about one hundred years ago. 
There were no trains on the island, but 
four boats a day from Liverpool fur¬ 
nished plenty of excitement. 

Most of the town was at the pier to 
see our boat come in. Cabbies wearing 
high silk hats with jaunty feathers at 
the sides were lined up with their horses 
and carriages, ready to convey the visitors 
to their rooms or boarding houses. 

Our lodgings were in the home of a 
private family, in a large stone house of 
twenty rooms that had been a government 
hospital in the time of Edward V of 


In Beaumaris 


103 


England. Now the house was occupied 
by the Thomas family, a few summer 
visitors, and twenty-five soldiers who 
were billeted there. They belonged to 
the Welsh Militia, which had headquarters 
in Beaumaris. Every Sunday morning 
the soldiers would have full-dress re¬ 
view, marching from the barracks to the 
church in little pill-box hats, blue trous¬ 
ers, and bright red coats, and led by their 
own brass band. It was very exciting 
and impressive to watch them. 

The Thomas home held another guest 
besides the soldiers and our family. In 
a large front room was a lady of the 
English nobility, a very peculiar lady, 
for she had a trunk full of white mice 
which she allowed to run all over the 
room. They were discovered one day by 
the little maid who had been sent to clean 
the room and who immediately ran 
screaming down the passageway, fol¬ 
lowed by several of the mice, that were 


104 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

no doubt as panic-stricken as she was. 

Down the street was the Post Office, 
which also served as the bank, and not 
far from there was the ancient Court 
House, where you could still see, jutting 
from a high tower, the old execution drop 
that was used for hanging criminals in 
olden times. It had long since ceased to 
function, for it was seldom necessary to 
inflict capital punishment in the new 
Wales. 

The dignity of the law was upheld with 
much pomp and ceremony in Beaumaris. 
During the week of court the judge, two 
barristers and a court crier would march 
twice a day in a little procession from 
Headquarters to the court room, the 
judge and the lawyers looking very im¬ 
pressive in their long black robes and 
curly white wigs. 

Beaumaris had a town green of twelve 
acres where the men and boys played 
cricket, soccer, and rugby. Then there 


In Beaumaris 


105 


was “ Happy Valley,” the ravine sur¬ 
rounding the ruins of Beaumaris Castle, 
where the children of the town had happy 
times. In the grounds of the castle were 
lawn tennis courts. 

Visitors were not encouraged to enter 
the castle. So many people had begun 
falling on the crumbling walls and into 
the dungeons that the practice of admit¬ 
ting sight-seers was stopped, and when 
we were there the only visitors allowed 
were the birds that had built their nests 
in the ivy-covered towers. 

We soon settled into the routine of the 
resort. We spent the mornings and 
afternoons on the sands, making castles 
and windmills, while mothers and nurses 
sat on beach chairs near the sea wall, oc¬ 
cupied with the inevitable knitting or 
crocheting. 

There were no boardwalks in our sea¬ 
side resorts. Wide promenades built of 
large blocks of stone or concrete skirted 


106 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the coast, against which the sea at night 
lashed and growled, as if angry at the 
restraining walls. 

On our way back to our lodgings at 
tea time we usually stopped at the shrimp 
shop, where from a window of freshly 
caught, newly boiled shrimps, the man 
would ladle us a bagful to take home. 

We would stop at another shop for 
strawberries and clotted cream, and thus 
we prepared for tea. Mother would 
spread butter heavily on a large loaf of 
bread, then cut off slices wafer thin. Then 
she would brew a pot of tea over the open 
fireplace of our room, and we would all 
begin to feel very cozy and very much at 
home. 

At eight o’clock every night the fish 
and chip man “ Johnny ‘chip-potato’,” 
came around with his two-wheeled cart 
containing the vats of fish and potatoes. 
The ice-cream wagon, too, would make its 
rounds, and for a penny we could buy a 


In Beaumaris 107 

tiny glass dish of frozen milk in different 
flavors. 

The beach itself presented many diver¬ 
sions. It was always great fun to watch 
the bathing machines play tag with the 
waves, especially when the tide began 
coming in. These one-man bathhouses 
were kept right at the edge of the sea so 
that the bather could step from the surf 
to his dressing room without the incon¬ 
venience of becoming entangled in a lot 
of clinging sand. When the waves began 
pounding in, the bathing machines had 
to be hauled back one by one by the strong 
little ponies hitched to them, until finally, 
as the surf began lashing in in real earn¬ 
est, the retreat would take the form of a 
rout, and bathers dressing in the little 
cabins would be treated to the thrill of 
a precipitous ride while oncoming waves 
splashed against the doors. 

Riding the donkeys was our most pop¬ 
ular sport. It was such fun to race down 


108 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

a smooth stretch of sand, or recline in a 
carriage and pretend you were big. 

Every afternoon the pierrots gave per¬ 
formances on the stands. They were trav¬ 
eling players who set up their stage right 
on the beach close to the promenade wall. 
You could lean on the wall and watch 
the show, or go down the steps to the 
sands and sit on a little chair, for which 
privilege you paid twopence. A hat 
would be passed around among those 
standing on the promenade, and no one 
allowed it to go by without adding a coin. 

Twice a week, on Wednesday and Fri¬ 
day nights, the Beaumaris tin-whistle 
band paraded through the streets. It 
was composed of men of the town who 
were skilled in the playing of the whistle, 
which was quite an accomplishment, since 
the instruments were made in different 
keys, and each man had his own part to 
play in the musical score. It was quite 
thrilling to hear fifty men march down 


In Beaumaris 


109 


the street playing “ Onward, Christian 
Soldiers ” on tin whistles in different 
keys! 

Beaumaris was a great fishing town. 
The fishermen would go out in their boats 
early in the morning, returning with their 
catch about eleven o’clock. Then they 
would peddle the fish through the town, 
carrying them in baskets hanging on their 
backs and suspended by straps from the 
tops of their heads. The two men who 
sold us fish were known as the Perch 
Brothers, and I never knew whether they 
acquired their name because of their busi¬ 
ness, or their business because of their 
name, or if the whole thing were merely 
a coincidence. 

Cockle women would come in from 
the sands with large baskets or bags of 
cockles fastened on the backs of their 
donkeys. On their heads they carried the 
big round sieves they used for washing 
the shellfish. 


110 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

Cockles are tiny fish similar to clams, 
but much smaller, and were usually gath¬ 
ered by women. They would ride out to 
the cockle beds on donkeys, with heavy 
shawls tied about their heads to protect 
them from the stinging wind of early 
morning. They would dig for the fish 
in the sand, where they had been deposited 
by the tide, and then scoop them into 
sieves and carefully wash them off with 
sea water. 

We often had cockles for tea. Mother 
would boil them in the shells and then 
place them on the table in a large bowl. 
Steam would arise from them, carrying 
a delicious odor, which we took as the usual 
invitation to begin. Some served the 
cockles without the shells, chopped up 
with little green onions. Then, too, they 
could be bought in the market places, 
where they were ladled out of big baskets 
and served on a saucer with a bottle of 
vinegar having a hole in the cork. 


In Beaumaris 


111 


A lot of people liked periwinkles, but 
they were too much like garden snails for 
my liking. 

The beaches near Beaumaris were ex¬ 
tremely picturesque. Streets in some 
places were built so close to the sea that 
houses having their front doors on the 
road opened in the back onto the ocean 
itself, the back steps often leading down 
to a little boat moored to the kitchen door. 
Sea gulls would fly down to eat the 
crumbs when the housewife shook out the 
tablecloths. 

Not far from Beaumaris was the town 
of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrn- 
drobwlllandysiliogogogoch, the name 
meaning “The Church of St. Mary in 
a wood of white hazel near a rapid whirl¬ 
pool and near St. Tysilio’s cave, close to 
a red cave.” 

It just about defies pronunciation, but 
a Welshman can sing it without much 
trouble. Happily, it is shortened for 


112 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

everyday use to Llan P. G., or Llanfair 
P. G. 

On one very happy day I went with 
the Thomas children to the farm where 
they regularly bought buttermilk. We 
started early in the morning so that we 
could go by way of the sea, a longer but 
much more interesting route. 

There were five of us on the trip,— 
myself and four of the eight Thomas 
children. Their father was a business man 
in Beaumaris, and because he sold shoes 
he was known as Hugh Thomas, Shoe- 
man, and his boys were called Hugh 
Thomas, Shoeman’s, sons. It was the 
custom in Wales, where so many have 
identical names, to distinguish one from 
the other by the use of nicknames, or of 
names describing the person’s business. 
And usually the wife, too, took her hus¬ 
band’s added name, the wife of Trevor 
Price the “ lamp works ” being known as 
Mrs. Trevor Price the “ lamp works.” 



In Beaumaris 


113 


Sometimes Welshmen were labeled by 
their neighbors in a rather uncompli¬ 
mentary manner, according to their pop¬ 
ularity, or lack of it. One man, being 
asked what he would like to be known as, 
crossly replied: 

“ Call me ‘ bara caws 5 (bread and 
cheese) for all I care.” 

So ever after that they called him 
Johnnie Bara Caws. 

The Thomas children called their 
teacher “ Betsy Bump ” because of her 
habit of picking up offending pupils and 
then bumping them back in their seats. A 
little friend was called Georgie Ginger 
Beer because of his fondness for the 
beverage. 

It was quite usual to see letters ad¬ 
dressed to such names as William Mine 
Boss Williams, or to Thomas “ Tely- 
nwr ” Thomas if the latter happened to be 
a harpist of local note. 

As we raced across the sands and 


114 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

clambered over many large rocks, Sadie 
told us of the many ships that had been 
wrecked on this very beach. 

“ It is a very thrilling and terrible 
thing when a ship founders near the shore. 
The people of the village rush down to 
the beach, and the men risk their lives 
in launching and setting out in lifeboats 
to go to the rescue of the sailors on the 
doomed vessel. 

“ Of course,” she added, “ there is 
profit, too, when a ship wrecks near a 
village. Valuable cargo is washed ashore, 
and the wood from a wreck keeps many 
families warm all winter. There is a 
funny story about a minister who was 
preaching one Sunday from his pulpit, 
which looked out to the sea. Glancing 
through the window while he was in the 
middle of his sermon, he suddenly saw a 
ship going to pieces on the rocks. He 
stopped, pulled off his surplice and walked 
down the aisle to the door. Then he 


In Beaumaris 115 

turned to the much surprised congrega¬ 
tion. 

My friends,’ he said, ‘ we can now 
start fair. A wreck! A wreck! ’ ” 

“ Of course,” Sadie hastily explained, 
“ that is just a story the villagers tell. I 
am sure no minister would really do 
that.” 

We soon came to the farmhouse, a 
whitewashed stone dwelling with a 
thatched roof. Chicken coops and pig 
stys were whitewashed, too, and as we 
got closer we saw that they were made 
of the overturned halves of small boats! 

No one answered when we knocked at 
the door, and we discovered that the en¬ 
tire family was in the fields cutting hay. 
The father and his oldest son were mow¬ 
ing with scythes, and the mother was fol¬ 
lowing them, raking up the hay. On her 
back was the baby, securely held by a 
woolen shawl tied about the mother’s 
waist. Two little boys were following 


116 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

her, picking up the wisps of hay she 
missed. The father and son were sing¬ 
ing a duet as they worked, the mother 
was humming quietly, and even the baby 
was occasionally adding some contented 
“ a-da’s ” to the symphony. 

We got our buttermilk and left. It 
was nearly lunch time, and we would have 
to hurry home. The mother returned to 
the haying, and the quiet singing from 
the field sounded pleasantly in our ears 
as we hastened away. But suddenly the 
drowsy harmony was blasted by the baby’s 
abrupt change from his contented cooing 
to a series of shrieks that sounded for all 
the world like a noon whistle. And noon 
it was, for immediately the church bells 
began tolling the news that the baby, in¬ 
spired by his noontime hunger, had al¬ 
ready so urgently announced. 

We found it necessary to leave Beau¬ 
maris on a Sunday, when the entire town, 
piers, shops, and streets, were as quiet as 


In Beaumaris 


117 


death, and the only activity of the day 
was that involved in going to church. 

In order to leave Beaumaris on Sab¬ 
bath we had to send our baggage out the 
day before, and now we were crossing 
by foot over the Menai Bridge to the 
mainland. As we left we waved good-bye 
to the Thomases, who were going to 
church. They formed quite a procession. 
The mother and father were in front, 
very dignified in their Sunday clothes. 
The children followed in two’s, all scru¬ 
pulously clean in their Sunday suits. The 
boys wore Eton suits and starched collars, 
and the girls were all in white. Shoes 
had been blacked the night before and 
clothes laid out, so that on Sunday morn¬ 
ing nothing remained but to put them on 
and then sit very quietly on a chair until 
the entire family was dressed. 

After church they would have dinner, 
and then prepare for Sunday School at 
half past two in the afternoon. After 


118 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

Sunday School they would return home 
for a period of scripture study and ab¬ 
solute quiet. At six o’clock they would 
again go out to church. 

This was the Sabbath routine shared 
by nearly all Welsh children, and we 
found charm and interest in the pleasant 
order of the day. 

Before we left North Wales we visited 
Llandudno, a famous Welsh watering 
place which was for many years the sum¬ 
mer home of several Moroccan merchant 
Princes and their entourages. This 
neighborhood was also the home of the 
little girl who was the “ Alice in Wonder¬ 
land ” of Lewis Carroll, who found his 
inspiration for the story in the glens 
and dells of the surrounding country¬ 
side, as well as in the life of the little girl 
he loved. 

An interesting discovery was that in 
this part of Wales the evenings were so 
long that in July one could read out of 


In Beaumaris 


119 


doors as late as ten-thirty. It reminded 
us of the beautiful summer nights we 
had spent in Brecon, where, when the 
moon was full, night merged into day 
with no intervening darkness, and but 
four hours of moonlight, the sun setting 
at ten o’clock at night and rising at two 
in the morning. 

We stopped also in Chester, an ancient 
city, now the gateway to Wales, enclosed 
by Fourteenth-Century walls following 
the lines of the old Homan foundations. 
These walls were topped by a paved path 
four to six feet wide, affording a delight¬ 
ful promenade around the town. 

Chester was noted for its second-story 
sidewalks, which were built directly over 
the stores on the first floor, and directly 
under the third and fourth floors of the 
building. Along these walks shoppers 
could stroll and window shop. There 
were four streets of these second-story 
stores. When the shopper on the terrace 


120 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

reached the end of the block, he descended 
by a stairway to the street, and, if he so 
desired, crossed the intersection and as¬ 
cended to the next row. 


CHAPTER IX 


CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HOLIDAYS 

Christmas was a very merry time with 
us. We began our celebration fully two 
weeks ahead of Christmas Day itself, and 
often continued the festival for as many 
weeks after. In some places the Christ¬ 
mas tree would have been set up and di¬ 
vested of its toys as early as December 19. 

During the weeks before Christmas the 
waits would begin patroling the streets, 
singing their Christmas carols, and the 
church bell ringers would begin vying 
with each other to produce the most lovely 
music with their steeple bells. Ringers 
from neighboring towns would gather and 
fill the air with chimes, and when the com¬ 
petition was over, would sit down together 
to a jolly Christmas dinner. 

121 


122 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

The making of the holiday plum pud¬ 
dings was begun many weeks before 
Christmas, and the day on which the in¬ 
gredients were assembled and stirred was 
regarded as especially important. On 
that day every one in the house took a 
“ stir ” at the pudding. Father, before 
leaving for business, would drop in a six¬ 
pence or so, for good luck to the one in 
whose portion it would eventually be 
found. He would stir the mixture once 
or twice, then depart. Other members 
of the family then took their turns, the 
children with a great deal of enthusiasm. 
This was so much more fun than making 
mud pies. 

Visitors would also be required to wield 
the wooden spoon, and a conscientious 
minister, after many calls on this day, 
would sometimes feel that a sum of all 
the “ stirs ” he had made would have pro¬ 
duced a good-sized batch of holiday plum 
pudding. 


Christmas and Other Holidays 123 

The thick batter was eventually bound 
up in cloths in the shape of a ball and 
dropped into the steaming boiler built 
into the kitchen range, and there cooked 
to a luscious nicety. 

It was at Christmas time that the Welsh 
love of music would best assert itself. 
The town bands would hold concerts, 
trained choirs would traverse the country¬ 
side chanting their beautiful carols, and 
even the children would add their voices 
to the music in the air. 

Days before Christmas we would go 
around singing our favorite carols and 
hymns. We would also sing: 

“ Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat; 

Please put a penny in the old man’s hat. 

If you haven’t got a penny, a halfpenny 
will do. 

If you haven’t got a halfpenny, God bless 
you.” 

If no response was forthcoming after 
that verse, we’d add more: 


124 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

66 If you haven’t got a halfpenny, a piece of 
cake will do. 

If you haven’t got a piece of cake, an orange 
will do,—” 

And on and on as long as necessary. 

The Welsh inns would be gay with 
music. Not the rambling tunes that 
might be expected, but time-honored, 
beautiful songs, such as “Cwm Rhondda” 
and “ Aberystwyth,” sung with a serious 
respect for music. A blind harpist would 
stroll in, set up his harp, and begin a 
concert that would last far into the night. 
The men would listen most respectfully 
and happily, for his music was of the 
best, and would do credit to the concert 
stage. 

Christmas Day itself was the occasion 
for many concerts and Eisteddfods. 
Concert halls and churches would be 
elaborately decorated in evergreens, holly, 
mistletoe, and bright flowers. In Glamor¬ 
ganshire, the county next to ours, the 


Christmas and Other Holidays 125 

climate was so warm at Christmas time 
that roses and hawthorn would sometimes 
be in full bloom for the occasion. 

In some parts of Wales a custom 
called “ Ply gin,” or watching for the 
dawn, was observed at this time. It con¬ 
sisted of proceeding to the church at three 
o’clock on Christmas morning and unit¬ 
ing in a service held by the light of small 
green candles made for the occasion. 
Sometimes the ceremony was held at 
home, as a sequel to a Christmas Eve 
jollification, when the merrymakers would 
sit up all night to greet the dawn. 

Miners sometimes followed an old 
Christmas Eve custom of carrying a board 
full of lighted candles from house to house, 
or wheeling a wheelbarrow containing a 
bed of clay in which the candles were 
held. They were arranged to form a 
“ Star of Bethlehem,” and the men would 
stop before a house and sing their carols 
around the star. 


126 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

The day after Christmas was called 
Boxing Day, when it was the custom 
for tradespeople to hang a Christmas 
box in a prominent place, as a reminder 
for customers to deposit the usual Yule- 
tide gift. These boxes were seen mostly 
in barber shops, standing suggestively 
among the brushes and razors. Cus¬ 
tomers seldom forgot to tip the box. 

A neighbor used to tell us of a peculiar 
Christmas Eve custom in which his father 
used to participate when he was a boy. 
Men dressed in Druidic robes, followed 
by those who would witness the ceremony, 
would climb the local Druidic Hill. There 
thirteen Druidic fires were lighted, twelve 
of them in a circle around a central fire 
higher than the rest. A cow was then 
led out from a near-by shed, and a plum 
cake adjusted between her horns. Im¬ 
mediately afterwards, a pail of cider was 
impolitely dashed into her face, upon 
which she naturally tossed her horns, thus 


Christmas and Other Holidays 127 

throwing off the plum cake. The purpose 
of all this ceremony was to see which way 
the cake would fall. If it fell forward, 
good harvests were predicted; if back¬ 
ward, the omen was bad. In either case, 
a feast followed, which every one enjoyed, 
even if the plum cake had fallen the wrong 
way. 

The excitement of the weeks preceding 
Christmas was to the children merely a 
preamble to the real thrill of Christmas 
Eve, when we would hang our stockings 
on the mantelpiece and hasten off to bed, 
there to close our eyes very tight so that 
Father Christmas could get busy without 
delay. 

In the morning we awoke to the 
miracle of Christmas, to find our stock¬ 
ings filled, and to rush breathless to 
Mother and Father, who were never so 
surprised at what Father Christmas had 
brought us as we thought they should be. 
There seemed to be an artificial note to 


128 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

their amazement, though we couldn’t 
understand why they should have to pre¬ 
tend. 

There were other things, too, that 
puzzled us. We could not see how 
Father Christmas could come down the 
sooty chimney and still remain clean. We 
worried especially about the fur on his 
coat and his nice white beard. Then there 
was always that mental measuring of the 
chimney stack and the resulting mystery 
of how a two-foot midsection could squeeze 
itself into a one-and-one-half-foot space. 
Of course, there came a time when we no 
longer wondered, but became very in¬ 
dulgent with those who did. 

On one Christmas I presented Father 
with a mustache cup, so called because it 
had a special lip on one side to hold the 
mustache and keep it out of the tea. 
Father laughed a lot, and so I felt happy, 
but when he bent to kiss me I wished some 
one would invent a guard for the faces of 


Christmas and Other Holidays 129 

little girls whose fathers waxed their 
mustaches. 

We did not have a large Christmas 
tree at home. Fir trees were too scarce 
in Wales for general use. I usually had 
a small artificial tree, a very glamorous 
affair with bright red berries and in a 
green wooden pot. 

The absence of a tree at home height¬ 
ened the interest we took in the large 
tree that held the center of the stage at 
our Sunday-school Christmas parties. It 
was laden with packages in all shapes and 
sizes, which we eagerly watched, wonder¬ 
ing which ones were ours. 

There was no way of telling until one 
of the teachers began taking them off and 
calling the names. It was an exciting 
time. When your name was called you 
advanced quietly to the front, trying to 
put into your walk enough speed to show 
your gratitude and to avoid slowing up 
the proceedings, yet enough hesitancy to 


130 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

refute any suggestion of greediness. You 
took your gift, said “ Thank you,” and, 
back in your seat, opened it up to find a 
Japanese doll or a lace handkerchief or a 
diabolo. With it would be a tinseled 
Christmas card on which plump little 
robins caroled gaily. You sighed, deeply. 
It was the happiest Christmas. 

The grown-ups had happy times, too, 
in which we often shared. They had 
parties in the church and at home. At 
the church they would have an enviable 
time eating “ trifle,” a delicious concoction 
of cake, custard and sherry wine which I 
was always only allowed to taste, since it 
was not very good for children. I have 
since thought that it was probably too 
good for the children, especially when 
there was only enough to go around twice 
for the grown-ups. 

There were many parties, though, in 
which we were allowed to participate fully. 
One happy time at our friends, the Hay- 
woods, I shall never forget. 


Christmas and Other Holidays 131 

While the grown-ups played games 
around the fireplace, we children played 
tiddledywinks at the other end of the large 
room or roamed about the house as we 
pleased. I liked to sit in the shadows near 
Mother and Father. Parents always 
seemed to be having a so much nicer time 
than the children! 

When the games were over, we all 
gathered in the dining room and sat about 
a long table that sagged with the weight 
of the roast beef, oranges, nuts, and plum 
pudding. The roast beef was cold, and 
marvelously pink and succulent. The 
plum pudding was the center of attraction 
with its sprightly sprig of holly. Just be¬ 
fore it was served, brandy was poured 
around it and then set afire. 

When the flames had died down and 
the pudding cut and served, we found 
that there was a little favor in nearly 
every piece. One of the guests found a 
thimble in her pudding, and she looked 
quickly at the young man next to her; a 


132 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

thimble meant you were sure to be an old 
maid. 

I looked at Mother, who was laughing 
quietly as she tried to slip a tiny doll 
under the rim of her plate. But when my 
sister was born a few months later I re¬ 
membered the doll and thought it all 
very wonderful. 

During the first twelve nights after 
Christmas we celebrated the Mari Llwyd, 
an old-time observance which was so 
ancient that no one knew how it had 
started, but which was such a lot of fun 
that every one observed it with enthu¬ 
siasm. 

Groups of people would get together 
and dress up in funny clothes. Then they 
woidd produce the skeleton of a horse’s 
head, which had been saved from months 
back. This would be decorated with 
ribbons and rosettes and thrust over the 
head of the person delegated to be the 
horse. Then they would go around from 


Christmas and Other Holidays 133 

house to house, making a lot of noise and 
rapping on the doors. 

They would say, “ Open the door and 
let us in. Our feet are frozen.” 

On being invited in they would prance 
about the rooms, the one impersonating 
the horse shaking his head and trying to 
put on a lifelike performance. The 
“ horse-play ” would usually end in a 
happy time, and after the host’s cakes and 
candies had been gratefully eaten, the 
players would depart, pausing outside 
the door to sing a song of thanks and good 
wishes. 

We celebrated the beginning of the 
New Year much as people do in America, 
—trying to make as much noise as pos¬ 
sible. When for a brief period we lived 
in Cardiff, we would stay up until mid¬ 
night to hear the steam whistles blow and 
the bells ring. In Pontypool, however, 
tin whistles took the place of the steam 
sirens, and the tin whistle bands would 



134 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

parade the streets at midnight, making 
as much noise as a Welshman’s love of 
harmony will allow. 

On New Year’s day in olden times 
children paraded from house to house 
bearing the “ apple gift,” which was a 
very elaborate piece of work. First there 
was the apple, which according to Druidic 
lore represented the sun. In it were in¬ 
serted three sticks in the form of a tripod, 
and these made a pedestal and suggested 
the rays of the sun. The sides of the 
apple were covered with flowers and stuck 
with oats or wheat, which were supposed 
to suggest the spears of Satan. Those 
who couldn’t find oats or wheat used 
pieces of broken match-sticks. Sprays of 
thyme or some other sweet evergreen were 
thrust into the top of the apple to repre¬ 
sent everlasting life. Finally a stick was 
inserted in the side to serve as a handle, 
and the child would then set out on his 
rounds, hoping to be rewarded with 


Christmas and Other Holidays 135 

enough coppers to make it all worth while. 

Some of our neighbors had peculiar 
superstitions in regard to New Year’s 
Day. A plentiful supply of bread during 
the year was felt to be an assured thing 
if a fresh loaf were brought into the house 
early in the morning. And doors were 
carefully guarded the first thing on New 
Year’s Day, to be sure that no woman 
entered the house first. To insure good 
luck, the first visitor had to be a man. 

A very entertaining custom, not ob¬ 
served in our town but practised in many 
of the country villages, was one which 
allowed the children to go about sprin¬ 
kling water from a cup with a sprig of 
evergreen into the faces of passersby, 
while they recited a verse wishing them 
good luck for the New Year. It was 
great fun for the children. 

Hallowe’en festivities were very jolly 
and amusing. We called the holiday 
“Nos Calan Gauaf,” which means “the 


136 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

first night of winter,” and we regarded 
it as one of the three nights for spirits, 
when ghosts walk and witches wander. 
The other two were May Day Eve and 
Midsummer Eve, which were also ob¬ 
served with appropriate ceremonies. 

Favorite fun on Hallowe’en was trying 
to bite an apple stuck on one end of a 
suspended horizontal stick. This was not 
an easy accomplishment, because on the 
other end of the stick was a lighted candle 
which would come around and catch in 
your hair as the apple eluded you. 

Some had a lot of fun with a puzzling 
jug, from which visitors were invited to 
drink. Tiny holes were concealed in the 
decorations around the brim, and those 
not acquainted with the arrangement 
would be treated to a shower bath as they 
attempted to drink. 


CHAPTER X 


EISTEDDFOD AU 

Father had been practising for 
months,— “ Ma-a-a-a-a, me-e-e-e-e,” un¬ 
til the house resounded with his notes. 
He would stop in the middle of breakfast, 
lay down his fork, clear his throat and 
suddenly cry, “ Love sounds an alarm! ” 
He would cup one hand behind his ear, 
and if the notes were to his liking, would 
continue with the song. If not, he would 
abandon it for more of the “ me-e-e.” 
His breakfast never would be finished, 
for in a moment he was at the piano, lost 
in the realms of song. 

The crack of rifles in the shooting 
gallery of the store gave way to bursts of 
song, and business was brisk with the 
violins, tuning-forks and sheet music, but 

137 





138 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

falling off on the bicycle and bullet side. 
Customers no longer thought of shooting 
pheasants and rabbits. They were more 
interested in the bigger game to be lured 
by silver notes from throat or string. 

In other words, an Eisteddfod time was 
approaching, when those talented in music 
and poetry would gather together to test 
the supremacy of their song. 

The Eisteddfod, which means a “ sit¬ 
ting ” or a “ session,” is an ancient in¬ 
stitution peculiar to the Welsh, and the 
oldest ceremony of its kind in the world. 
Its primary object was to select and en¬ 
throne the best Welsh poet of the year, 
but it came to be a contest of worth for 
many other of the arts, notably the playing 
of the flute, violin, and harp, until to¬ 
day it is a ceremony of tremendous im¬ 
portance to the Welsh, a typical program 
including contests in individual and group 
singing, poetry, dramatic recitation, and 
the playing of almost every important 


Eisteddfodau 139 

instrument. It serves now to perpetuate 
the Welsh language, popularize Welsh 
literature, and stress the cultural ad¬ 
vantages of good music. 

Some historians refer the real origin 
of the Eisteddfod back to the days of King 
Arthur, when he would call his knights 
together for contests in various branches 
of physical skill. The first recognized 
Eisteddfod, however, was held in Caerwys, 
Wales, in 1100, and with but few lapses 
when Wales was busy fighting off her 
enemies or suffering from her losses, a 
national competition has been held every 
year since. 

It is the custom to begin this Eisteddfod 
on Bank Holiday, which is the first of 
August, and observed as the first day 
of the official holiday season. Welshmen 
from all over the world return to Wales 
at Eisteddfod time. 

Although the national contest I once 
attended in Colwyn Bay, North Wales, 


140 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

was the more important, the one I 
remember more clearly was held in 
Chepstow Castle, which is not far from 
Pontypool. The castle itself, although in 
ruins, was very interesting and lovely. 
It stood on top of a high cliff rising from 
the River Wye, and with centuries of 
stirring history to its credit, was a very 
inspiring place in which to hold an 
Eisteddfod. 

Father was entered in the tenor solo 
competition, and many of our friends 
were competing in other numbers. There 
was a feeling of excitement about our 
town. For weeks before the Eisteddfod 
men went around with an air of listening 
for stray sounds. “Is Billy Williams 
singing better this year? But no, he is 
not a very dangerous enemy. His in¬ 
structor is not teaching him the correct 
method. He sings too much in his throat. 
Now, to sing well, one must go like this, 
‘ Ma-a-a-a-a,’ the notes resounding from 


Eisteddfodau 141 

nature’s sounding board, the bone cavities 
of the nose and head.” 

That was Father’s method of voice 
culture, used, of course, by all good sing¬ 
ers, and he found it most successful. But 
some of the other singers would differ 
with him, and soon there would be 
gathered in Father’s store a group of 
prospective rivals, each trying to win the 
other over to his method of voice produc¬ 
tion. 

“ Listen to this,” a short, slim basso 
would demand, and from his slender body 
would come the deepest, richest tones. 
Soon the store would be filled with a dis¬ 
cordant medley of sounds as scales were 
sung and fragments of songs thrown into 
the air as proof of the argument. 

Then a miraculous thing would happen. 
All those jarring notes would suddenly 
blend into the most exquisite music, and 
the singers, forgetting that they had but 
a moment before been wrangling over 


142 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

their voices, would be singing together, 
each man to his own part, “ Aberystwyth ” 
and “ The Bells of Aberdovy,” capping 
the unexpected performance with: 

“Ah, ha ha! You and me, 

Little brown jug, don’t I love thee!” 

Customers would listen attentively, but 
without much surprise. Welshmen, they 
knew, were like that. 

Chepstow Castle, on the day of the 
Eisteddfod, was alive again with hordes 
of fighters. But its falling walls gathered 
them in loving embrace, for these fighters 
used the weapons of their poetry and song, 
not spears and swords as in the days of the 
old castle’s prime, and their only battle 
cries were musical remembrances of wars 
long dead. 

And yet, the walls seemed to tremble 
slightly when a chorus of two hundred 
men stood on the Eisteddfod platform 
and sang as only Welshmen can: 


Eisteddfodau 143 

“ Men of Harlech, in the hollow, 

Do you hear like rushing billow, 

Wave on wave that surging follow, 
Battle’s distant sound? 

“ ’Tis the tramp of Saxon foemen, 

Saxon spearmen, Saxon bowmen. 

Be they knights or hinds or yoemen, 

They shall bite the ground. 

“ Loose the folds asunder, 

Flag we conquer under, 

The placid sky, now bright on high, 
Shall launch its bolts in thunder! 

“ Onward! ’Tis our country needs us, 

He is bravest, he who leads us, 

Fight for home, for life, for glory, 
Freedom, God, and Wales!” 

Did the old castle remember those 
bloody days? Was it, I wondered, 
alarmed? These Welshmen looked war¬ 
like enough. Would they violate these 
trusting stones, now settled into the 
dreamy days of a peaceful old age? 

But when the song was over, the sing¬ 
ers filed down from the stage peacefully 


144 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

enough, the glow of battle completely 
gone. In its place was an anxious ex¬ 
pression, which seemed to ask, “ How did 
we sing? Shall we win? 

Then another male chorus sang. It 
was wonderful how the men watched their 
leader. Every movement of his hands 
was significant. The singers sang softly, 
raised their voices to a crescendo and sub¬ 
sided again at the command of those ex¬ 
pressive hands. Their very breathing 
seemed to be under the conductor’s con¬ 
trol. I even began to think, sitting there 
shaken with emotion, that they might hold 
a note at his command until one by one 
they would collapse and sink breathless 
to the floor. My regret when the music 
ceased was overshadowed by a great re¬ 
lief. 

This was the afternoon of the Eistedd¬ 
fod. Preliminary contests had been held 
during the morning, until in every group, 
sometimes of twenty competitors, only 


Eisteddfodau 14 5 

three remained to be tried in the main 
contest of the afternoon and evening. 
Those who judged them (the adjudi¬ 
cators) sometimes sat on the stage with 
the contestants, but usually were seated 
in the audience, that they might hear the 
musicians to best advantage. 

Father was one of the three tenors 
selected during the preliminaries, and 
now it was his turn to sing in the finals. 
The test piece was “ Love Sounds an 
Alarm! ”, from the opera “ Aida,” a very 
difficult aria. 

Thousands of people were by this time 
filling the benches and standing around. 
Mother was sitting with me, and she 
seemed very nervous. I wondered why 
she was not competing, for she had a 
beautiful voice. She could always make 
me cry by holding me in her arms at bed¬ 
time and singing: 

“ Lay your head on my shoulder, Daddy; 

Turn your face to West.” 


146 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

Father was coming to the front of the 
stage, opening his music copy with hands 

c 

that trembled slightly. The adjudicators 
consulted their lists. This was entry 
Number One in the tenor solo competition. 
Father nodded to the pianist, and then 
there was that dreaded moment when I 
wondered if he would begin at the right 
place. Surely he had passed the note. 
The pianist had been playing at least a 
minute. But then his voice came strong 
and clear, “ Love Sounds an Alarm! ” 
He sang without a tremor, but I was 
pressing my handkerchief into a tight 
wet ball. 

Two other singers followed, and I 
wondered how the adjudicators could 
ever decide which one was best. It mat¬ 
tered not if the singer were short or tall, 
thin or rotund, that same amazing rich¬ 
ness of tone came from his being, that 
same soft lyric quality so pleasing to 
Welsh ears. 


Eisteddfodau 147 

Father had returned to his seat with 
us, and was intently listening to his com¬ 
petitors. He seemed very happy. 

£ ‘ They are not giving it the correct in¬ 
terpretation,” he said, as tenor Number 
Three began to sing. “ They are wrong, 
and I’m going to win.” 

One of Father’s friends who was sitting 
near by leaned over and said: 

“ Looks like Offie’s going to win, 
Griff.” “ Offie ” was tenor Number 
Three, and quite a celebrated local singer. 

But Father shook his head. He seemed 
quite confident of what the decision would 
be. 

Number 3 concluded his song and re¬ 
turned to the audience. Presently one of 
the adjudicators stepped up on the stage, 
rustled his notes and looked over the as¬ 
sembly. The silence was intense. 

“ In this competition,” he said, “ I am 
surprised at this fact. Of the three con¬ 
testants, only one has given the right in- 


148 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

terpretation to this beautiful solo, ‘ Love 
Sounds an Alarm!’. Two sang it as 
though it were a love song, which it is 
not. The words alone would intimate it 
was never intended so. They call for 
dramatic singing. 

“ Furthermore, I can’t understand why 
two of the singers sang in such slow tempo. 
Much too slow. The time is marked on 
the copy. 

“ Therefore I have no hesitation in 
awarding the prize to—Number One.” 

And then amid the applause of the 
audience, Father was walking up the 
aisle to the stage, where an exquisite 
little bag dangling from a long loop of 
ribbon was hung about his neck. In it 
was the prize money. 

The bag itself had won a prize earlier in 
the day, in a competition to select the best 
prize bags for the Eisteddfod. Women 
of Wales fashioned them, and were real 
artists at the work. Fine stitches joined 



149 


Eisteddfodau 

together exquisitely blended pieces of 
colored silk, and the linings and draw¬ 
strings were as carefully chosen as the 
outside. Sometimes the bags were em¬ 
broidered, sometimes their beauty was 
left to the excellent quality of the silk 
and its blending of colors. But always 
they were wrought with artistry and care. 

The three best bags received prizes, and 
these and as many others as were needed 
were used to hold the prize money for 
the tenors and bassos and pianists and 
poets. 

The Chepstow Eisteddfod was con¬ 
cluded with a tenor and bass duet compe¬ 
tition. Evening shadows had begun to 
fall before it was finished, and candles 
were hastily brought in from the town. 
And while stars added their glimmering 
to the flickering light, the blended voices 
of competing singers sent their songs into 
the air. Every one seemed subdued and 
happy. Millionaires and miners, farmers 


/ 


150 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

and lords, seemed to need no greater joy 
than to sit together in the starlight and 
be part of an Eisteddfod. 

On Bank Holiday we went to the 
National Eisteddfod in Colwyn Bay, 
and on the morning of the first day fol¬ 
lowed a group of men dressed in the long 
flowing robes of the ancient Druids, high 
priests of Wales, to the top of a mountain, 
where the Gorsedd ceremony was ob¬ 
served, as the customary opening of a 
national Eisteddfod. Spread before us 
hundreds of feet below was an amazing 
view. We could follow the curve of the 
bay for miles. Tiny waves teased the 
golden sand, and the grass of the adjoin¬ 
ing fields was as green as emeralds. The 
London Daily Mail, in reporting the cere¬ 
mony next day, praised the view as the 
finest in Europe. 

A huge wooden building had been 
erected for the duration of the Eisteddfod. 
It would hold twenty thousand people, 


Eisteddfodau 151 

and five hundred singers could stand on 
the stage at one time. Even at that, the 
place wasn’t large enough, for on the 
opening day people not only filled the 
building, but nearly as many sat around 
on the grass outside. 

During the first day the premier poet 
of Wales was enthroned in a high Bardic 
chair; choruses collected, sang, then dis¬ 
solved in the crowd; little girls recited, 
and singers from Europe competed with 
the Welsh; and there were contests in 
playing on the harp, which is the national 
instrument of Wales. [In the early days 
there was a harp in every home, and 
children were taught to play from child¬ 
hood.] 

On the second day the ladies’ choruses 
competed. The prize was awarded to a 
chorus of one hundred and fifty young 
women from a girls’ school in North 
Wales. They were led by the headmis¬ 
tress of the school, a bent little woman 


152 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

over seventy years old. She seemed frail 
until she stood in front of her chorus. 
Then she seemed to become powerful and 
strong, for at her command voices blended, 
whispered, and soared. She moved her 
arms quietly, but the girls didn’t take 
their eyes from her until the song was 
ended. 

Later in the day we saw the girls as¬ 
sembled at the railway station waiting 
for their train home. And because they 
were happy at having won the prize, they 
were singing. There was no audience 
and no piano, but their voices were flaw¬ 
lessly in tune and perfectly blended. And 
the little lady who had so earnestly led 
their singing on the Eisteddfod platform 
was now just as earnestly pleading with 
them to stop. 

But they couldn’t. They were happy, 
and they were Welsh, so they must sing. 


CHAPTER XI 


GOOD-BYE TO WALES 

f 

We were going to live in America, a 
land across the “ pond,” where people ate 
strange food; peanuts, peaches and sweet 
corn; where girls wore silk stockings and 
white shoes, even white buttoned shoes, 
and rolled around on roller skates; where 
people put screens in the windows to keep 
out mosquitoes and flies. 

Father prepared to sell his business, 
while Mother sent away for several 
American fashion magazines and en¬ 
gaged the services of a dressmaker. We 
wanted to be sure that our clothes would 
be in the American style so that we would 
not be too conspicuous in the new land. 

Millicent’s dresses were of fine cash- 
mere, handmade and embroidered. Being 
allowed to choose the material and pattern 

153 


154 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

for my traveling suit, I picked a navy blue 
serge with glass buttons on the coat and 
skirt. It was not a very attractive pat¬ 
tern, but the girl who was wearing the 
suit in the magazine was also wearing a 
pair of roller skates, for which I would 
at that time gladly have exchanged my 
beloved bicycle. 

We sailed from Liverpool, Mother, 
Millicent, and I. Father was with us 
at the dock, but he was remaining in 
Wales a few months longer to complete 
his business arrangements. 

It was very exciting, boarding the ship. 
But when the gangplank was raised my 
happiness vanished. There was a crush 
of people about us on the deck. Another 
crowd waved and shouted at us from 
the pier. In that other crowd was Father. 

He looked tiny and forlorn down there. 
I suddenly wanted to kiss him and say 
good-bye again, but there was no way I 
could get to him. He waved at us and 


Good-bye to Wales 155 

we waved back. He tried to tell us some¬ 
thing, but we couldn’t hear him. 

Then a group of men on the pier called 
out: 

“ Are we downhearted? ” 

And the people on the boat answered 
in chorus: 

- No-o-o-o-o!” 

But Mother and I didn’t join in the 
reply. The boat pulled slowly out and 
Father waved until we could no longer 
see him. 

As the land faded into the distance and 
the world became nothing but ocean, sky 
and ship, things began to look better. 
There was so much to see that was new 
and startling, among them a shop where 
one could buy chewing gum, which I had 
never tasted nor seen before. However, 
during the days we were on board, I 
managed to make up for many chewing- 
gum-less years. 

The ocean itself was very interesting. 


156 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

Sea gulls followed us for a day or so, 
swooping down to the waves when we 
would throw crumbs to them, and some¬ 
times stopping to rest on the waves. Then 
schools of porpoise began jumping in the 
wake of the ship, a long line of them 
leaping into the air and making graceful 
curves as they dived back into the water. 
Sunsets and sunrises were beautiful. Our 
world, at night and in the morning, was 
filled with color, the sky and sea looking 
like a glass of cloudy water into which red 
ink is being slowly spilled. 

On the ship, waves began splashing 
over the lower decks and rushing into 
the stairways and lower cabins. People 
were becoming seasick in the most un¬ 
becoming places, and stewards were kept 
busy rushing around with mops and pails. 

One day I met Eleanor, an American 
girl, and we became friends, soon finding 
that we had many interests in common. 
We both liked the evening concerts, and 


157 


Good-bye to Wales 

we usually spent all the afternoon pre¬ 
paring for them. Our preparations con¬ 
sisted of collecting pieces of string and 
tying them into long strands. 

We took this string with us to the con¬ 
cert, and while people were standing close 
together listening to the music we would 
tie the feet of some of them to other feet, 
or to near-by pillars. We were terribly 
frightened, and hardly ever stopped to 
see what happened when our victims at¬ 
tempted to move away. But I am sure 
nothing serious happened, because the 
string wasn’t very strong. 

One evening, though, we had only one 
rather heavy string to work with, and this 
we stretched with some apprehension from 
the ankle of a pretty young lady to the 
foot of a man some distance away. We 
got far away as soon as possible, but next 
day I noticed that the young man and 
the young lady hadn’t been hurt at all, 
for they were walking together around 


158 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

the deck and laughing and talking like 
old friends. Eleanor suggested that per¬ 
haps they had “ fallen for each other,” 
but I was sure the string hadn’t been 
strong enough for that. 

A few days later we docked in Phila¬ 
delphia, where we were met by Mother’s 
brothers. On the long ride to their home 
I caught unforgettable glimpses of my 
new country. 

Girls seemed very pale. Streets were 
crowded and rather noisy, but still of an 
astonishing spaciousness. The laughter 
and cries of the children seemed very loud. 
Later some of them were to call me 
“ greenhorn ” and say, “ Hello, English, 
how’s your heart? ” while I would draw 
myself up proudly and reply, “ I am not 
English, I am Welsh.” 

It was faintly reminiscent of an oc¬ 
casion in an Eisteddfod in Cardiff Castle, 
when a distinguished musician, Dr. Lloyd 
of London, was about to make an adjudi- 


159 


Good-bye to Wales 

cation. He prefaced the announcement 
of his decision in this manner: 

“ I notice that the morning papers re¬ 
fer to me as the English adjudicator. I 
want to say most emphatically that I am 
Welsh, not English. It is true that I was 
born in London. But if a man happened 
to be born in a stable, surely you wouldn’t 
call him a horse! ” 

He was proud of his nationality, but 
had no bitterness toward England. It is 
of the Welsh that a famous poet once 
truly wrote: 

“ Yet in whose fiery love of their own land, 
No hatred of another finds a place.” 

When Father joined us in this country 
we left Philadelphia to take up our 
residence in Scranton, Pennsylvania, 
which has the largest Welsh population 
of any city in the United States, and 
among many relatives, and such names 
as William Williams, David Davis, Evan 


160 When I Was a Girl in Wales 

Evans, and Griffith Griffiths, we found 
comfort in a new land. 

Scranton was a haven where we found 
fish and chip shops, Welsh churches and 
societies, Eisteddfods, and coal mines 
from which Welsh miners came home to 
wash up and go out to choir practice. 
We learned of Scranton choruses that had 
crossed the ocean many times to compete 
in homeland Eisteddfods, listened to their 
music and felt a deep yearning for Wales. 

We joined the church, and Father be¬ 
came the choir master. I went to school 
and tried to catch up on American history, 
while struggling not to roll my r’s and 
to keep my voice from going up and down 
in the characteristic way of the native 
Welsh. 

I wore a red flannel petticoat which 
caused me inexpressible embarrassment 
by coming down one day in the school 
yard. A short time later, in the same 
playground, I saw a boy experience a 


Good-bye to Wales 161 

similar embarrassment when his shirt was 
pulled loose in a fight, revealing a bright 
red chest protector which he desperately 
tried to hide while the others, taking ad¬ 
vantage of his lowered arms, pummeled 
him about the face. 

Years later I met a young man who 
seemed to be an especially nice person, 
and subsequently discovered that besides 
being the boy of the red-flannel under¬ 
shirt, he was also one of the Thomases 
with whom I had raced across the sands 
of Beaumaris when I was a girl in Wales. 
So we were married, in spite of the fact 
that he was a “ Northus,” while I was 
from the South. 

Three young American boys are now 
growing up in our home, and we are very 
earnestly trying to deserve the full 
measure of happiness that has come to us 
in America. 


The End 
































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